


The ones who give the epitaph

by psychosomatic86 (orphan_account)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (again?), (for Az/Crow), (for Death/Adam), Action/Adventure, Adventure, Angst, Armageddon, Body Horror, Emetophobia, Enemies to Friends, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Eye Trauma, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Alternating, Slow Burn, boy howdy idk how to tag this lads just some real reality fuckery going on, gross abuse of Plato but he's dead so he can't @ me, philosophy??apparently??, so like tags to be added lol, unreality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-04-23 02:31:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 52,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19141774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/psychosomatic86
Summary: There’s something terrible begun. They don’t know what exactly, or why, just it looks awfully familiar - looks an awful lot like Armageddon. Again. But even that's wrong.And where exactly are Heaven and Hell?(In which the world comes to a quite literal standstill, and an angel and demon are left to puzzle out the pieces with a most unlikely pair of friends.)





	1. omennous

They have a general consensus for days like these, when the seamless November sky at last pulls apart and heartily soaks Soho, a final hurrah of effort where the rest of the natural world has already begun to hunker down for impending the winter. When houseplants shudder by fogging windows but still maintain enough poise in their leaves to prevent a row, and when even the most adamant of bibliophiles favors their own personal library over braving the deluge outside in the hopes they can coax one notorious seller into revealing his wares. On such days, well, the last Thursday of the month - they’ve lived long enough to catch these cheeky little patterns - an angel and a demon like to natter away the weather together, bribed from a morning’s sobriety by the tempting warmth of many secretive stashes of wine and their own insatiable boredom.

 

“D’ja know’at,”  Crowley slurs. “Y’y’know’ _at_ …”

 

He waits the appropriate amount of time to decide that Aziraphale is not going to answer him, and so presses on unprompted and just a tad bit antagonizing.

 

“Mmmm… _mmmmmmmm’_ a’missit.”

 

“You’re drunk, dear,” Aziraphale sighs, staring dreamily out the window. His eyelids hang heavy from the heady port they’ve just finished off, his vision similarly laboured such that he can easily pick out any individual raindrop he likes from the multitudinous many rushing for the pavement. He enjoys watching them fall. It’s a lovely way to pass these afternoons.

 

“An’I know you do _too_ ,” Crowley continues, unimpeded. He stares at the ceiling, turning his head this way and that, oscillating his own unfavorable vision to encourage the ceiling beams above to swirl back and forth, back and forth. It’s wondrously hypnotic, though does not deter the demon from opining further.

 

“S’been _aaages_ sss-since any’v’us av’even - when’s’a last time you stuck that pretty nose in s-someone’s business, _Angel_.”

 

“Oh, oh, oh why just _yesterday_ ,” Aziraphale smiles as he rests his chin in his hands. It’s a lovely weight off his shoulders; holding his head up is simply too much effort.

 

He can feel the demon’s eyes boring into his back, so he closes his eyes and reminisces, “This poor mother was short on bus fare. I gave her… uhm… a tenner I believe.”

 

The demon scoffs. “S’at what yer callin’ miracles’ees days?”

 

“To her I’m sure it was.”

 

It’s not nearly the quarrel they sometimes kick up about this subject. Initially, both demon and angel maneuvered tentatively in the newfound liberation post Not-Quite-Armageddon, what with no more head office to answer to, no more abrupt visits from PR, no more _hiding_. Certainly, they rather did little to obscure their relationship from the start (no wonder they’d been caught out, a miracle, really, it hadn’t been sooner). It’s nice, though, to languish with good company in the wake of their respective losses. Crowley doesn’t count it as such - good riddance to the slimy lot down there, but Aziraphale took some time acclimating to a world no longer tied up in celestial bureaucracy. Altogether, he’s found a measure of peace in it.

 

On occasion, though, a rare form will take over one of them, and the other will have to stand a firm stance against it, ballast to the rising tide of panicked terror. Sometimes Crowley will seethe and moan about the inevitable tortures they’ll both endure at the hands of his people, and Aziraphale will adamantly refuse to entertain a word of it until the demon talks himself hoarse, sleeps for a week, and wakes up on a better side of things. Sometimes, it’s the angel’s turn to fret for days, into weeks, and, on one insufferable occasion, succumb to an entire month of nail biting hair pulling terror, convinced his nerves are the inciting incident of some grand psychological torment to orchestrate his descent into madness, and then oblivion itself. Recompense for his sedition. Crowley called him a selfish bastard and why wasn’t he similarly afflicted? Did they just up and forget about his fantastic role in thwarting Armageddon? Come off it, Angel.

 

And sometimes, on rainy November days when nothing can be accomplished but for several bottles of excellent alcohol, they’ll just whine about their losses together, because it’s all in good fun and neither of them intends anything terribly existential about it, anyway. Still, Aziraphale would prefer not to think of all the ways their respective roles have diminished over the past three years. It’s one thing to shirk responsibility, as he and Crowley have done for millennia, but entirely new to them both is this lack of, well, any altogether, at least with regard to answering to higher authorities. Freelancing, Crowley calls it, to buck up their spirits. Make their own miracles and mayhems.

 

Except now he’s bringing the mood down spectacularly. He knows it, too, but the alcohol renders inhibition and tact laughable concepts, so he soldiers on.

 

“Y’know’at - what I’ve done, Angel? My _grand_ machinations and such…”

 

“Yes, dear?”

 

“Parked inna - inna handicapped space.”

 

“Ohh, diabolical,” Aziraphale hums, and manages to turn himself around and watch a slow, sardonic grin work its way across Crowley’s mouth.

 

“Yes’I’rather thought… meself,” the demon sniffs. Staring into his empty glass, he frowns. “Mm, refill, Angel.”

 

“I think we’ve had - had enough.”

 

“N’such thing.”

 

“Get it your-yourself, then,” Aziraphale says, waving a dismissive hand before turning round to stare out the window again.

 

Crowley glowers at the back of his head, but he lacks the cognitive conviction to burst those tousled white curls into a proper flame, so he relents and instead magics into his free hand a crystal decanter of something violently orange.

 

“Oh that’s _vile_ ,” the demon grimaces, and takes another swig. He’s never had Aziraphale’s knack for fine vintage, but this is particularly repulsive. It’ll do wonderfully.

 

“Have a - you should try,” he mumbles. The ceiling vaults obligingly to the left, and he giggles.

 

“What’hm?”

 

Aziraphale glances over his shoulder just in time to see Crowley slouch his way off the couch and onto the floor. He waggles the unperturbed decanter in the angel’s direction, still laughing quietly to himself.

 

“Deeeee _lish_ ,” the demon tempts.

 

Aziraphale miracles a pillow under his head but otherwise ignores Crowley completely. He just wants to watch the rain and sober up enough before tea time if he can help it. In the interim of their respective exiles, he’s found his stomach distinctly more sensitive than usual, unable to indulge the copious amounts of drink it once could. A side effect of humanity he supposes, ah well. Crowley suffers similarly, but it does little to hamper his binges. To each their own, really.

 

For the demon’s part, then, he remains staunchly plastered, occasionally offering some half baked wisdom about the state of things and the eternity of their complacence in it, but mostly laughing into his bottomless decanter, audibly marveling at each color he can fill it with. It all tastes terrible, and something divorced of his more sensible volition encourages him to keep drinking, but can’t pin a finger on it, nor does he really care to.

 

Aziraphale tunes out most of it, half dozing, half wandering his wobbly vision over the ever plummeting sky outside, torrential, now, to the point where he can barely make out the shopfronts across the street. It’s implacably cozy.

 

And then a flash. Red. It darts between the droplets, comprised of a billion of its own. Unmistakable. Wrathful amidst the silver sheets.

 

“I say,” the angel does, indeed, say. “That’s odd.”

 

“Wassat?” Crowley calls from the floor.

 

When no response comes, he groans and coaxes himself into a sitting position. A few laborious seconds elapse where he must soothe himself through a blinding dizzy spell, but a tenuously willful thought urges the worst of it away, and he’s able to stand, next, and sway over to Aziraphale.

 

Presently, the angel has his nose pressed to the window, eyes wide and searching. Crowley squints through the glass as rain pelts, relentless and cold, against the panes.

 

“Saw the strangest thing,” Aziraphale mutters.

 

“Wha-?” Crowley starts a second, more sober time, and, as well, Aziraphale opens his mouth to explain the fascinating phenomenon he just witnessed, but neither is afforded the chance to finish either endeavor, and suddenly both are bearing witness to the strangeness as it oh so politely creaks open the door to the bookshop and stands, hulking and radiant with violence, in the frame.

 

“Oh!” Squeaks Aziraphale, and with a surreptitious snap of his fingers, Crowley vanishes every drop of alcohol from their systems, their blood now free to pound with a newly adamant cocktail of adrenaline, horror, and utter disbelief.

 

Stood in the threshold, drenched but hardly a flame liable to be quenched by mere water, War looms in all her glory, yellow teeth gleaming through parched lips as blood falls in rivulets from her grimy, impeccable hairline.

 

“It’s _cominggg_!”

 

She must think she sings her words, the garrulous inflection suggests as much, but they emerge between her split sneer as grinding screeches, each syllable flaking off like rust from the disused gears of her favorite pastime.

 

“ _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale hisses, frozen to the spot and frantic with his inability to react.

 

Neither angel nor demon dares take their eyes from the entity before them, but neither angel nor demon knows much what else to do beyond that.

 

War spares them the discomfort of waiting, and throws her head back in frenzy of convulsions and howls and guttural croaks.

 

“Oh no no no no no no _n̸͚͝o̶͉̊_!” She wails, and doubles over, crashes to her knees, bracing on all fours like a rabid dog and thrashing her ginger curls to and fro. Blood and water fling from her person, splattering every surrounding surface.

 

The demon and angel can only watch, watch and cling to each other.

 

“Not _for_ you,” War finally wheezes, whipping her head up at a sickening angle and an accompanying _crack_ of bone. Her eyes are gone, dripping in a mixture of vitreous fluid and tar down her cheeks, and the anguish across her teeth, lips wrenched back and carving up to her ears, leers at them.

 

Silence results; the din of rain, her echoing screeches, all of it vanishes into a vice of dense, soundless nothing that clamps down on the moment and suspends the three of them in a most concise eon.

 

War watches them. They watch her. And then she lunges

 

“ _Ḧ̵̜́ ̵̺͆e̴̼̽ ̴̮͆l̴͕͝ ̴̥́p̷̨̅ ̸͓̏ ̶̥̒m̵̨̅ ̴͈͐e̵͇͘ ̵͖͐_!̴̙͗”

 

And Crowley hauls Aziraphale backwards, interposing himself between the angel and the creature that sprouts from War’s torn form: a flail of limbs, splashes of loosened teeth, bruised blood and marrowless bones vaulting, spraying forward.

 

And then ash, all of it, before it touches them or anything else, desiccated to a crackly, listless cloud that plummets, particle by particle, to the floor, and sifts away to nothingness on an equally indiscernible gust of air.

 

“Well,” Crowley breathes, and abruptly keels over, dry heaving onto the floor and very nearly missing an errantly strewn book in the process.

 

“That was a thing,” he grimaces when his constitution returns, shakily, to him. He says as much to no one in particular, not that Aziraphale has presented any opinion yet, or even moved for that matter.

 

Crowley makes to look up at his friend, but a fresh wave of nausea spills up his throat, and he falls again to his hands and knees, spasming not unlike War did seconds prior.

 

“Ah fuck,” he gasps, and squeezes his eyes shut as his stomach gives a last lurch. “Fuck, Angel, magic me some soda would you.”

 

Silence responds, and when Crowley opens his eyes, his friend is no longer beside him. Panic screams up the demon’s spine, but it abates just as quickly when he sees Aziraphale not a few feet away, stood in the door. He makes for a far less imposing silhouette than War, but something about the image is desperately just as ominous. Something _wrong_ lurks around Aziraphale, through the windows, too, anywhere, really, that Crowley can see through to the outside world.

 

“Crowley,” the angel says and, really, he should be fathoms away for how distant he sounds.

 

He steps aside, and Crowley looks.

 

Outside, the rain has stopped.

 

In fact, everything has stopped.


	2. all's fair

With a snap of his fingers, every ounce of alcohol returns to Crowley’s system, and he wades about in the resulting, oh so welcoming haze until his sour stomach attempts to vacate his chest cavity entirely. There’s nothing left to dispel, so the demon wretches on air.

 

Aziraphale offers no help, not even that pitying, pained gasp he’s so good at - and it’s not for lack of sympathy, really, merely his friend’s agonies take a decided backseat to the present issue. Because the rain hasn’t just stopped. Rather more it’s ceased _doing_ , each individual droplet - he can pick them out one by billion one - suspended and shivering and rotating slightly as if puppeteered on strings who would prefer to snip themselves entirely and be done with the affair. 

 

Apathy.

 

Yes, that’s it, the utterly queer feeling that permeates this entire ordeal, this _un-doing-ness_ of everything, as though it just simply doesn’t care to. And it doesn’t. Aziraphale feels it to his very bones. Nothing cares.

 

It’s not just the rain, either, the world beyond the haven of the bookshop has altogether stopped. The few people unfortunate enough to have been caught out in the storm, clutching inside-out umbrellas for lifelines, have relented formerly braced postures (for there is no more wind) to stand listless and wavering, hands slack at their sides, expressions indecipherable for the lack of desire to, well, express anything. The nearest pedestrian, a young woman, hunches just across the street, and Aziraphale watches as she sways in a circle, lolls her head from side to side, displacing some of the rain hovering about her, but she takes no notice of this. A hum of static disfigures her eyes, her slack mouth, rendering any acknowledgement of her surroundings a vague and easily dismissed consideration. 

 

“What… the _fuck_ … is going on.”

 

Aziraphale jumps only to find Crowley looming beside him, glasses in hand, his serpentine eyes narrowed to suspicious slits. 

 

“Did she fucking do this?” Crowley demands.

 

Behind them, War’s crumbled, ashen self sits in horrifying memory. Not there, but still very much _there_ , a scorched cenotaph in their mind’s eyes.

 

“I - I - I don’t - I mean this is just - Crowley what -? And she -?”

 

“Alright, alright, c’mon, back it up, easy there.”

 

Much as he’s bat-shit fucking _baffled_ , Crowley keeps enough of his head to know his friend is spiraling and needs to sit down and have a nice drink, yeah? Some schnapps? There’s a good angel.

 

Aziraphale sits where Crowley guides him, staring dumbly at the still open door. The demon takes immediate notice and flicks a finger in its direction, and then again, and a final, third time until the material responds and creaks shut. Crowley puts the delay down to the cluster fuck of confusion and adrenaline addling his mind, and decides to postpone summoning the aforementioned schnapps until he has a better grip on himself. 

 

Instead, he sits beside Aziraphale and lays a tentative arm across his shoulders. The angel does not respond, so Crowley chooses not to point out the fact he could well do for some comforting, too. He did also just see a woman explode.

 

“Alright we gotta do something,” he says after a small age of oppressive silence. “Angel? Hm? Y’hear me?”

 

He gives Aziraphale a slight jostle, and the angel gasps.

 

“Oh,” he says, soft and pitiful. “Oh… oh dear. Crowley… I… oh dear, oh dear…”

 

Aziraphale doesn’t mean to sound so plaintive, really he would far prefer to scream, to weep, to bury himself in his friend’s embrace and never emerge again, but he suspects this will remedy comparatively little. Not that either of them has enough of a grasp on this to offer such a thing.

 

“She… she said it’s coming,” he whispers. 

 

“I know,” Crowley tightens his grip around the angel’s shoulders.

 

Helpless, but hoping to rationalize, Aziraphale says, “I - but then, why would she come to us? And - and why did she - and what if -”

 

A strangled sob pushes passed the words already gone limp on his tongue, and he crumples in on himself.

 

“I didn’t think. It would be. So soon,” he cries, quiet and lost, into his hands.  

 

A desperate ache displaces the dread in Crowley’s chest, and he’s not sure he prefers it. Well, he prefers none of this, would rather that Heaven and Hell had maybe given them a few bloody centuries, at least, to enjoy a reprieve before starting all over again. But now it’s not so petty a confrontation as Armageddon, as good against evil to determine eternity’s sole and ceaseless reigning morality. That failed, but it predestined another, the _last_ battle, the one against humanity, itself.

 

“Angel,” Crowley says, but it comes out rasped and pathetic.

 

He clears his throat, ignores the burning behind his eyes, and tries again.

 

“Listen to me. Aziraphale? Listen, please.”

 

Crowley waits until at last his friend manages to lift his head. His eyes, so alive with humor and good wine a moment ago, are red and glassy and distant, and Crowley can’t hold that gaze, casting his own to his lap, wringing his hands there and wracking his brain for a way to make this better.

 

“We don’t know,” the demon says. “Okay? We don’t know if it’s happening, haven’t heard anything. For heav - for - _augh_ ! _She_ doesn’t even mean anything!”

 

Again he waves a furious hand to the middle of the floor. There’s barely a soot stain to indicate her violently departed presence, as though they’d only imagined her together - some ominous, shared phantasm. 

 

“But you heard -” attempts Aziraphale, only to promptly snap his mouth shut when Crowley fixes onto him the glower he’d been using to regard the spot where War fell. 

 

“We both heard,” the demon mutters, his ire pooling by the minute, in the back of his throat, behind his eyes, between his knuckles as he clenches his hands to fists. 

 

“But the _bitch_ bit it, huh?” He spits the curse at the ground, feels marginally soothed for it.

 

And then he looks at Aziraphale, the angel pulling away, fear creasing a cavernous line between his brows. He’s seen Crowley mad, but never so vicious as this, all vitriol and razors without the offending outlet to receive them.

 

In a blink, the demon softens, abandoning his serrated grimace and glaring canines for the hapless ignorance truly fueling this.

 

“What I mean is -” he unfolds his fingers from themselves and grasps Aziraphale’s own, interlocking them, grounding himself. 

 

“You can’t have it without her, right?” He says. Pleads, really. 

 

“But she said - ” protests Aziraphale.

 

“And then she discorporated,” Crowley counters. “I’ve seen her work -  _we_ saw her. She doesn’t up and bloody announce the end times and then piss off.”

 

“But-”

 

“Angel, listen to me,” Crowley cradles Aziraphale’s face, stroking his thumbs along his cheekbones. “It’s - I mean it’s not okay, but we can’t go expecting hellhounds at the door already.”

 

Aziraphale drags in a shuddering breath, his softly searching eyes wavering in Crowley’s gaze. The demon hurriedly soldiers on, several misfit pieces suddenly jamming themselves together in his scrambled mind. 

 

“For one thing,” he says, “seems an awful bloody unfair advantage to give themselves, right? Freezing up everyone like this.”

 

Aziraphale finds the ray of logic in that and clings to it, grapples it to his metaphorical person and leeches every last drop of warmth from it.

 

“Yes,” he says, warily in case he smothers it. “That would - they would never… my side, at least.”

 

“My lot might,” Crowley frowns. “Doubt they’d get it past a popular vote with yours, though.”

 

“No, it’s definitely not - and they would have arrived by now, or scouts at the very least.”

 

“Seas rising and fire plummeting and all that,” Crowley adds.

 

“Yes, yes of course,” Aziraphale readily agrees. 

 

They were never much the creative bunch up There, always so by the Book. The angel can hardly conceive of even Michael stooping to such clever treacheries as psyching out the whole of humanity. Heaven wants to earn its glory, even if every pompous Principality is already convinced of an inevitable victory. And look what good that did them last time.

 

“It doesn’t add up,” Crowley says, careful of his confidence in such a statement, but there is a definite measure of certainty to be found in this, at least insofar as they can all agree something is terribly wrong.

 

“It doesn’t,” echoes Aziraphale. 

 

“But, my dear,” he says. “What do we… do? 

 

“Seems there’s still an apocalypse going on and all,” he adds bitterly.

 

Crowley sits on that for a moment, tries to swallow it all down like a bitter lozenge save this one offers little by way of a remedy, and the only other one can he think of is hardly a bullet either of them is keen to bite. Really he’d rather wash the aforementioned placebo down with holy water but… desperate fucking times isn’t it.

 

“I think we need to get in touch,” hes says, very much in spite of himself and the alarm bells turning his pulse inside out.

 

The mere thought of ringing up Hell after all he did to humiliate them… but what else can they do? 

 

“I mean, doubt they’ll pick up,” Crowley begins, and for the first time these last few treacherous moments looks truly tired, the fire seeping from his eyes leaving shadows to slouch beneath them as the dull, brittle grey light from outside slinks across his face.

 

“No I wouldn’t suppose,” says Aziraphale shakily. 

 

He resists the urge to reach out to his friend and soothe away that exhaustion, suspecting they’re going to be tried in far more taxing ways in the very near future. He also does not want to reveal how badly his hands are trembling.

 

“No harm in trying,” Crowley lies.

 

“No,” Aziraphale agrees.

 

Three years. Three years since either was summoned or chastised or commended or told _anything_ from their respective head offices, and it was _bliss,_  but now, with yet another Fate capital ‘F’ hanging in the balance and no informational footing to speak of, the radio silence is just insult to injury. A real bloody low blow, that. There’s a cosmic punchline to it all, but neither of them can quite suss it out. 

 

After an arduous moment, Aziraphale clears his throat.

 

“I suppose I? Should try first?”

 

Crowley raises an eyebrow, impressed by the veritable suicide mission implied there.

 

“They enjoy fealty,” Aziraphale dithers, wringing his hands as he reasons it all out, as much for his sake as Crowley’s. “Gabriel’s too smug to ever admit, but you’ve met Michael. And Sandalphon too, good Lor - er _gracious_.”

 

Crowley cracks a smile.

 

“Even in the end times, Angel?”

 

“I have my standards,” Aziraphale says.

 

It’s a short lived but much needed bit of levity.

 

“But yes, I - I think I should give it a go.”

 

Crowley takes his hands again, shielding them safe and warm between his own.

 

“Only if you’re sure,” he says.

 

Aziraphale sighs.

 

“What other choice do we have?”

 

-

 

It takes a considerable amount of time for them to prepare - the emotional toil of beseeching Head Office so soon weighs none too kindly on Aziraphale’s shoulders - and while it in turn worsens their anticipations, all manner of terrible righteous punishment silently suggesting itself as they barricade the shop from the uncaring, un- _doing_ outside world (which they will address _later_ , thank you very much; one reality bending cock-up at a time, please) they plod on, regardless. Well, Crowley helps to shut the shop but ensures a healthy distance from the celestial conduit Aziraphale carefully re-chalks on the floor.

 

With each powdery line the angel swipes atop the floorboards, sharp snaps of divine energy skitter up the demon’s arms, the rune seeping latent energies, and twice Aziraphale glances his way, his expression grave, but Crowley waves him on, takes another step back, and then another, until, as Aziraphale lights the last candle, he’s genuinely considering braving the non-elements outside and booking it across the street, all manner of hideous piety squirming over his brimstone flesh. Metaphorically, of course, but the divine doesn’t discriminate the Fallen, even one disowned by his ilk.

 

“Angel, m’not so sure about this anymore,” Crowley says. “Or at least, me being here.”

 

“You stood in the presence of Michael, yes?” Aziraphale asks, dusting off his hands on his trousers.

 

“Yeah? Was’your point.”

 

“Well he’s an archangel and -”

 

“Yeesh, don’t go putting him on some pedestal.”

 

Aziraphale frowns. “What I mean is, this gets me through to the Metatron-”

 

“Fun,” grimaces Crowley, scratching furiously at his inner elbow where an invisible patch of holy hives gnaws at his skin.

 

“So of course it’s going to be a bit in excess,” Aziraphale continues. “But Michael’s only a smidge down on the hierarchy, and even myself-”

 

“Get on with it,” says Crowley. “Or you just looking for an excuse to brag, now?”

 

Aziraphale blusters and blushes, and Crowley allows a genuine smile for it.

 

“You’re going to be _fine_ ,” the angel huffs. “Just might sting a bit.

 

“You fiend,” he adds for good measure, and he could almost forget himself in this banter. 

 

As he drags his gaze back to the chalk lines, however, his sight flickers over one of the windows. The curtains are drawn but for one errant fold in the fabric through which a sullen patch of the grey-washed light casts its pallor, and his mood plummets to a more appropriate level of dread. His stomach dislodges itself into a similar tangle of knots as he takes in the reverent glow of the conduit, but he folds his hands beneath his chin, and coaxes his quivering bottom lip to mutter the prayer. Distantly, he feels Crowley flinch, but he can’t risk losing concentration. 

 

As before, his first pleas go unanswered, but a firmer tone to the angel’s utterances at last connects him, and he opens his eyes to a shock of virulent white. Meta-tangible tendrils wisp off and disintegrate into the air beyond the cylinder of the conduit’s connection, and behind him, cloistered as far in the corner as he can manage without knocking out a wall entirely, Crowley hisses. 

 

Aziraphale ignores him and stares fervently into the alabaster vapors, searching for the Metratron’s face. Well, he’ll take anyone, but the two of them never talked long enough to wound each other for bad blood, so he’s holding out for _not_ Gabriel or Michael or Uriel or - he shudders - Sandalphon. 

 

“Hello?”

 

The conduit swallows the question and throws it around its cavernous expanse in ghoulish echoes that worsen Aziraphale’s nerves with each passing iteration that goes unanswered. After several seconds, the query loses momentum and dissolves into the white nothingness. Aziraphale frowns.

 

“Er, my Lord?” He tries. Perhaps a bit more deference is necessary here, he can’t assume he’s in Her good graces, either.

 

Again, the conduit so graciously accepts his query. Again, it offers nothing in return.

 

“Angel - ?” Says Crowley weakly from his corner. 

 

“I don’t… understand,” whispers Aziraphale. 

 

“Angel, please, it’s really starting to hurt.”

 

“But - this - I -”

 

Aziraphale dithers, staring at the conduit, his ears ringing, fists clenching, loosening, itching to grab at his hair or perhaps the nearest tome and send it hurtling into the conduit, maybe knock someone’s head back on their shoulders so they might answer the _damn_ call. The sheer blasphemy of the thought sends him stumbling, shocked at his own audacity, but in an effort to catch his balance, his foot connects with one of the several strategic candles and topples it out of unison. 

 

Immediately, with an underwhelming snap and fizzle, the conduit shuts off, looking comically much like a cathode-ray television screen as it does so. From the corner, a gasp sounds as Crowley all but collapses with relief. From his own person, Aziraphale whimpers. 

 

“Angel,” Crowley groans, and takes a dizzying step toward his friend, the chalk lines still taunting him with holy abeyance.

 

“Angel, please put it out - _ah_!”

 

That was certainly a step too close, and Crowley recoils the meager distance he’s made. Thankfully, it receives attention from Aziraphale, the angel starting where he stands and finally spurred to attention. 

 

“I - I - I’m sorry,” he stammers, scuttling around the conduit and smudging out its corners with his shoe. 

 

“And get that bloody candle, too,” Crowley says, pointing out the offending taper still sputtering away mere inches from a stack of precious and highly suggestible manuscripts. 

 

“Oh - oh dear, oh dear,” Aziraphale, trembling, retrieves the candle and pinches its flame without so much as a wince, and Crowley, deciding it’s worth the risk of ethereal radiation, hurries over to his friend and gathers him in a fierce hug. 

 

“Oh, Crowley,” the angel says, sounding so small and lost.

 

“Shh, shh, s’okay, Angel.”

 

“Oh, what do we _do_.”

 

Crowley has never been one for false assurances, conniving as they can be, and hardly intends to start deceiving his friend now with flimsy hopes. He yet stalls the inevitable, though, sparing a transitory moment of relative peace to just hold Aziraphale, rub his back, albeit a bit awkwardly.

 

At length, however, he must admit, “I don’t know.” and Aziraphale heaves a great, shuddering breath. 

 

“Didn’t think I’d see the day we’d want ‘em to pick up, eh?” The demon attempts to quip, but Aziraphale only buries his face further in his collar. 

 

Bad taste, that. He tries again, this time for his own edification. A thousand and one unsavory assumptions are worming their way between the cracks of his resolve, and there’s only so long he can hold them both together right now.

 

“There’s no reason they wouldn’t answer, right? Hm? Angel?”

 

He steps back, still gripping his friend by the shoulders, and peers imploringly over the rims of his glasses.

 

“Right? You said it yourself, the Metratron answers, yeah? Next worst thing to the big guy upstairs.”

 

“Well, yes,” answers Aziraphale, not at all seeing Crowley’s point, but he’ll take anything that isn’t certain doom for an answer.

 

“So either She’s still tetchy you lost your sword, or something’s wrong. Really wrong. Not just _Armageddon-wrong_ , Angel.”

 

“And how do you propose we figure out what that even is?” Says Aziraphale. “If Heaven won’t answer, your end certainly won’t.”

 

“I mean - I should still try.”

 

Crowley can’t believe the blather that’s coming out of his mouth; he should be jumping at the bit to avoid calling down there! But his less favored better judgement won’t let him alone, nagging that it’s the last present resort they have to any real answers. The only thing more terrifying than Hell’s virulent, loathsome presence, is its sinister lack thereof. 

 

Unable to contain a sigh, he lets himself deflate, making no objection to the palm Aziraphale rests against his cheek. 

 

“I’ll just - just pop out to the Bentley.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder, weakly. For its part, the door to the bookshops gives an assenting squeak. Funny though, he hadn’t meant to channel any specific miracle to open it yet.

 

“Quick call,” he insists when Aziraphale gives him a pleading look. “Won’t be a minute.”

 

“Is it even safe to - to go out there?” 

 

“It’s not sulfur, Angel,” Crowley says with a wan smile. “Just… weird and… paused or whatever. _Christ_ we still have to figure that out - oh fuck I can’t believe I just said that.”

 

He gags around the curse like a bitter bite of licorice, as well expecting an admonishment from Aziraphale, but no such chastisement is forthcoming. In fact, the angel is no longer paying him any mind. Instead, he’s staring over Crowley’s shoulder, equal parts consternation and terror tangling up his face in an expression that runs Crowley’s blood cold through to the pit of his stomach. It’s exactly how he looked when War welcomed herself over the threshold. 

 

“Angel,” he croaks, unable to turn around but desperate to know what’s now stood there, what other, awful evil awaits them.

 

“I -” begins Aziraphale, but he’s interrupted by the last thing Crowley expects to hear and from the last person he’d ever anticipate in the thick of this.

 

“Hallo?” 

 

And when he turns around, shocked with disbelief, nothing could prepare him for the sight that greets him. Rather, it makes War’s entrance seem a cheap trick.

 

"Hiya," says Adam Young, raising his right hand in a meek wave, “We need help.”

 

 _YES_ , rasps the figure beside him, holding captive the boy’s left hand in a loose embrace of Its own overlarge, emaciated fingers. _WE DO._

 

In a pantomime of Adam’s greeting, Death raises Its other skeletal hand, arcs it slowly, jittering from side to side, as though unfamiliar with the motion. There’s something terribly, _awfully_ comical about such an image. There could have been a laugh in it somewhere were the circumstances entirely _not_ as they are now, because, well...  There’s just absolutely _nothing_ pleasant implied when Death waves at you, is there. 

 

No. Nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Quick update, this is still updating, ik it looks a bit abandoned, im just busy and inspiration/motivation is hit and miss, but ye, it’s still got juice left yeet)


	3. and death shall lead Them

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told yall i wasn't done with this. Got a huge burst of inspiration the other day and fleshed out a proper plot, then proceeded to bang out this chapter in record speed. I hope 6k+ words makes up for the radio silence! I'm excited for what I've got planned, and I'm going to try to update weekly because I do not want to lose momentum with this story. Thank you all who have clung on to your bookmarks and commented, you keep me going you really, really do <3
> 
> (There's also been a slight amendment to the end of the last chapter so it fleshes with this one, as well tags have been updated and the title tweaked just a bit.)

Tadfield is no stranger to inclement weather, anymore. Following the dethroning of its unbeknownst Prince of Hell, summers have ceased bestowing perfect sunny blue skies over the town, and there hasn’t been a proper white Christmas in three years -- just a bit of sleet and ice that even the more adamant youth couldn’t bring themselves to try and sledge through. Today’s rain provides just as little whimsy, and the most youthful of them all struggle spectacularly to find amusement in such a deluge. Usually, Adam might encourage them all to spend a drizzling afternoon ferreting out slugs and worms to furnish a castle of twigs, or dam up a crick what for all the wonderful mud at their disposal. Really, though, these days are better weathered indoors, with as much cocoa as Adam can convince his mum to make, and half the available linens strewn across the living room in a rat’s maze of tunnels and hideyholes. 

 

“I’m _far_ too old for this,” protests Pepper, but of course will not be left out of the charades.

 

As well, neither Wensleydale nor Brian can be convinced of how childish pillow forts are, so she concedes to the majority and huffs her way beneath a duvet. Evidently, though, she’s not quite reached the age of teenage pessimism that might warrant a skyward nose to Anathema’s magazines, and she quickly neglects the worst of her grumbling as Adam reveals the latest sets of glossy pages absolutely riddled with wonderful, ghoulish images. Dog, possessing no opinion on magazines or age appropriate games, snuggles up in a ball of wiry fur beside Adam, occasionally snuffling, mostly sleeping.

 

“Oh thas’ grim,” Brian slurs, grimacing not for the sludge of cocoa and cream soda sherbet in his mouth, but instead at the ghastly illustration detailing the necessary steps to physically manifesting the third eye with things called _Delta Rutilates_. To the Them, it just looks like costume jewelry glued to a woman’s forehead.

 

“Vulgar and inane,” agrees Pepper, stirring a peppermint stick into her own mug. “My mum says that’s uh’prer-apro...” she grapples for the word, newly enamored of multi-syllabic retorts and so trying her hand at them with any given opportunity.

 

“Appropriation?” Offers Wensleydale.

 

“What’s that mean?” Brian again.

 

“Stolen, I think,” interjects Adam, a bit put out by Pepper’s unsportsmanlike attitude, but not wanting to seem ignorant in her ever clever eyes.

 

“It’s when white people rob religious icon-er…”

 

“Iconography?” 

 

Wensleydale to the rescue again, and the other two boys chuckle as Pepper huffs.

 

“Wassat?” Brian.

 

“Like, think crucifixes’n stuff.” Adam.

 

“Except not,” retorts Pepper. “I mean, yes, but also not _every_ religion believes in Jesus.”

 

“Oh okay,” says Brian, contented with those answers, and focuses on chewing grainily his last mouthful of chocolate soaked sherbet.

 

No more questions, just Brian frowning forlornly into his empty mug, so Adam turns the page.

 

“Oh wicked,” he breathes, and the other boys lean in, as does Pepper abandon her sour pout, so that all four of them are gaping at the apparent worlds upon worlds you can visit with a third eye.

 

“Who cares if it’s appropriate,” Adam grins.

 

“Appropria _tion_ ,” says Pepper, crossly.

 

“This is so cool,” Adam continuous, unimpeded. 

 

Outside, the rain picks up on a roar, and Dog whimpers beside him as a roll of thunder shudders through to the floorboards. 

 

From the kitchen, Mrs. Young calls, “Alright in there, loves?”

 

“Some more cocoa, please?” Brian calls back.

 

“Where would you want t’go,” Adam asks, eyes still glued to the magazine. “What kinda worlds d’you think are out there?”

 

“Hyp-o- _thetically_ ,” pronounces Pepper, and smiles to herself, smug that Wensleydale hadn’t the chance to correct her.

 

Adam shrugs, reaches beside him to pat Dog.

 

“Yeah, but still. What you think’s out there?”

 

An uneasy air filters suddenly into the cozy fort, the three other Them glancing nervously at each other, not quite at Adam, something unsaid lingering in their gazes.

 

“Well... I mean,” begins Wensleydale.

 

“Besides _that_ ,” Adam says, sterner than he intended, so immediately softens, “You wouldn’t want t’go there, anyway. So boring, just white sand n’stuff”

 

“Imposing,” mutters Pepper, trying out another word, but even though she’s unsure of its exact definition, it feels all too right.

 

“Well there’s way more’n it,” Adam sets down the magazine so its pages sit in a full spread for all four viewers. “Look.”

 

He jabs his finger just off-center of the page, atop a glossy explosion of pastel shimmers - pinks and blues and gold streaked white - amidst which appear to dance a thousand, jittery figures, all spindle black and featureless.

 

Brian, every easily swayed, squints at the picture. “What even is that? What kinda world looks like that?”

 

Another shrug, another pat for Dog, who whines at another percussion of far off thunder. 

 

“Dunno, but it’s beautiful, innit?”

 

“Looks like sherbet,” Brian says, a bit hungrily, and then, “Oh, erm, hey Adam? D’you think you can ask your mum for more cocoa? Don’t think she heard me.” 

 

“Hey mum!” Adam calls, and the three Them jump at the sudden burst of volume. They’ve spent most of the afternoon whispering conspiratorially. “Mum!”

 

“Jeez, loquacious, much?” Hisses Pepper, throwing a haughty smile at Wensleydale whose confused frown emboldens her confidence.

 

Really, he just hasn’t the heart to correct her again.

 

“Yeah, you don’t gotta bother her if -” Brian starts, but stops as Adam scrambles up from his stomach onto his hands and knees.

 

“Nah, s’okay. I’ll go ask her. Need the loo, anyway. You guys want anything?”

 

He looks at a self satisfied Pepper and a trying-to-stifle-a-laugh Wensleydale. 

 

“Nah,” says Pepper.

 

“No, thank you,” echoes Wensleydale.

 

“Right. Back in a ‘mo. Dog? Coming?”

 

He nudges the ball of fur beside him, but the warning growl he receives serves its purpose, and, shaking his head at the animal - so tetchy about naps - Adam crawls from their nest, wending the three tunnels it takes to get in and out, hup!-ing triumphantly to his feet when he emerges at the edge of the living room. 

 

“Actually another peppermint, please!” A muffled Pepper calls, and Adam gives a salute.

 

“Can do, Peps!”

 

“I told you not to call me that!”

 

“Sorry, Peps!” 

 

Laughing, Adam scurries from the room, down the hall, before Pepper throws another thirteen syllable word at him. He’s had four cocoa’s, so makes a beeline for the toilet, first. In his haste, though, he does spare a quick glance outside where the rain appears to be letting up. _Yesss_ , he thinks. Much as he loves perusing creepy magazines in a blanket fort, it never does any of the Them any good to stay cooped up, or Dog for that matter, except mum’ll probably make him stay in because of the mud. But if Adam promises to wash him extra hard... And they can go see if the quarry has flooded a bit, and if mum has any extra yarn and thimbles for fishing poles. 

 

The kitchen his next destination, then, his legs carrying him there in a flash, eager to get out and run a mile or two, Adam hardly even pauses to look at mum over by the kettle, mouth already gabbing two dozen words a second as he busies himself with rifling through the sweets bowl by the junk drawer. 

 

“Brian asked for another cocoa, please, mum. ‘Cept I think we’re outta sherbet, but that’s good because I think it’s really gross - oh wait no, here’s some! Also do you think we can go out soon? And Dog, too? I promise I’ll clean him with the hose before he comes back in, I _swear_. And are there any extra garden stakes for fishing poles? An’ yarn an’ stuff, we’re out from las’ time an’ -”

 

Turning ‘round, his pockets stuffed with various sweets - mostly peppermint, and the cellophane baggie of sherbet ferreted away in his back pocket - he expects mum to scold him for taking too many, that she’ll then smile, shake her head, and say “Well, we just won’t tell Dad, will we.”

 

Except she hasn’t moved at all from the stove, not an inch.

 

“Mum?”

 

Cautious, aware of a precipitous, sinister chill at the back of his neck, Adam takes a step towards her. Then another. Two, three more.

 

“Mum?” 

 

He reaches out, and something poises in the air, beside him, above, below, behind, in the tripping pulse between his ribs. A spring-coil waiting. Thunder in a vacuum.

 

He takes her elbow, turns her around.

 

And screams.

 

Stumbles backwards. Keeps screaming. Stumbles, falls. Scrambles back up. Screams, _screams_.

 

“Mum!” He sobs. 

 

But she isn’t his mum. That _can’t_ be her that - that _thing_ without a face. It wears her clothes, the messy braid bun coiled up lopsided near her left ear. The shoddy apron he managed the afternoon Anathema insisted she teach him how to sew. But her face, her _face_ … Where a tired fond smile should be, brown eyes and slightly crooked nose, instead there is nothing - only a displacement of features, as though everything has been smeared to the right, then the left, then up, then violently spiraled. Absently, terrified, he thinks of his maths teacher who never wipes the board clean, but this is flesh and the dark of her brows, a gory splash of her lipstick. This is vulgar.

 

“Mum…” he chokes, tears streaming in bewildered streaks down his cheeks. “Mum _mum_ what happened, _mum_!”

 

She doesn’t answer. Can’t. Her mouth’s half wrenched to her forehead. 

 

With an abrupt lurch, Adam’s stomach makes a bold leap for his throat, and he stumbles to the sink, heaving up an afternoon’s worth of cocoa, crisps, and assorted sweets.

 

“ _Mum_ ,” he croaks, eyes squeezed shut, leaking hot, vicious tears, the flood of them dripping off the tip of his nose and into the basin of the sink, mixing with the stink of his sick. “Mum, please stop, _please_!”

 

Fourteen years of age, and Adam Young would like to think himself a man, already - gets into mischief when he likes, but with a modicum of maturity - and certainly old enough to bite a wobbling lip and swallow down a lump in the throat. Now, he cries unbidden, unafraid of the vulnerability. He cries like the boy he is, still so small. So lost.

 

“ _Mum, mum, mum_.”

 

_SHE CANNOT HEAR YOU._

 

Choking on another scream, Adam whips around, searching out the grating-echo voice. He casts a frantic look at his mum, heart hammering out a death march through his chest, but she’s not moved, not spoken, not _anything’d_. 

 

“Wh-who’s there?” He stammers, and then, emboldened, rage planting its feet firmly beside his fear, “Who’s there! What did you do to my mum! _Who’s there_!”

 

_NOT WHO, PRINCE. NOT ANYMORE._

 

He shrieks, a graceless, wounded sound, looks everywhere, rooted to the spot and white knuckle stuck to the counter’s edge, but looking, delirious with desperate momentum, looking for the owner of the voice. Familiarity makes a sickening grapple at his spine, the nape of his neck where gooseflesh flares. It’s a remembered voice. He’s heard it before.

 

And then, another sound. Fierce and shrill.

 

 _Dog_.

 

Adam yelps, so many sounds clamoring for his lips, but his body knows better, knows the rough grip of Dog’s jaw at his trouser leg, the frenzied shake of his head, and so settles only on brief surprise at the animal’s abrupt presence.

 

“ _Dog_ ,” Adam manages, forgetting entirely the sinister voice, and crumples to the floor beside his pet. 

 

Now, Dog has made every effort to tame himself since abandoning for good the hellish blood in his veins. He knows to only lick tear stained faces, knows it’s not a savory seasoning for the whole head. He knows when his master needs a cuddle, a playful nip, a scolding bark if he’s about to do something rash and punish them both to a week’s grounding in the garden. He knows, as well, when something is terribly amiss, right down to the instinct of it. So he does what instinct tells him, allows him to do without hurting his master anymore than has already wounded him, nipping and whining and, finally, when his master manages back onto his feet, darts back toward the living room, putting up a caterwaul of barks and whimpers.

 

“Dog, please,” Adam stumbles after him, face pinched up in pain, anguish. 

 

The rapid little heart in Dog’s chest aches at the sight, but his master needs to see this. With dread driving him on, the animal plants himself on his haunches at the entrance to the living room fort, throws his head back, and howls mournfully into the dead, still air.

 

And that’s when Adam feels it. And that’s when he remembers. And that’s when he _knows_.

 

“No,” he rasps, collapses to his knees again, building bruise upon bruise to the sore flesh. “No _no please please_.”

 

He crawls, infantile, pleading, through the quilted tunnels, to the main nest of it, the heart of it, the gathering of his friends. To the emptiness of it. The missing. The gone. The lost gone gone gone _gone_.

 

All gone, all three of them, disappeared into the perverse quietude of the blankets, the torches, the discarded magazine still open to a page of infinite, beautiful worlds. The spill of a dropped mug, its contents spreading on mum’s favorite throw pillow. The lingering snap fizz of Brian’s sherbet grin, the caustic snit of Pepper’s “ _actually_ ” as Wensleydale bites his tongue. The cut-out-and-bleeding camaraderie of his friends. The wretched hole left in their wake, the utter simplicity of it. No evidence of struggle, of willful exit, of hiding-from-Adam-for-a-bit-of-sport. And no way to seek out the hidden, because they’re not doing that. They’re just _gone_.

 

_YOU CAN HELP THEM._

 

And so, he knows. He remembers.

 

 _Where are you_!

 

_YOU ALREADY KNOW._

 

_What did you do to them!_

 

_I DO NOTHING THAT IS NOT ALREADY INEVITABLE._

 

 _“Where are you_!”

 

Adam howls, beats his fists into the empty blankets, tears the tent of them down, exposing the last vestiges of their haven to the cruel, quiet house beyond, where mum lurks, useless in the kitchen, where Dad isn’t (he’s gone, too, it’s there in the black and white grey matter of Adam’s knowing), where that grey leaks in from the outside and spoils the magazines.

 

“ _WHAT DID YOU DO TO THEM!”_

 

A pause. Poised. Not like before. Not a turning-round-mum anxiety. Just a waiting, a choosing of words, the cherry-pluck of them. The precise, skeletal care of them. 

 

 _FIND ME, PRINCE._ They come at last, germinating through the floorboards, rotten of root, but a spite of life in them, anyway. _I WILL TELL YOU._

 

And he knows. Knows he knows. Always knew. Never very far, is it. Always round the corner. Always perched to throne for decrees of finality. 

 

Yes, Adam Young knows where Death waits.

 

-

 

He is not a man, barely a teenager, and with no one around anymore, who will scold the tears? Who will tell him to chin up, buck up, look up. Up up, why is it always up? What do they think is up there? He’s seen, and it’s little to aspire to, just white and vast, and pointless without a handhold, without the grounding of good and bad to say, “Here now, we won’t tell you what to do. You tell us.” 

 

Nothing. No one and nothing. No one no one, only _It_ , evil waiting _It_ , and It will wait and wait, Adam knows, will wait until the very end, and wait some more, still. 

 

So he will make It do so for the hate of it, the I-still-have-some-control-in-this. He will cry, curled in on himself, foetal, fragile, and heave up great gobs of sobs that _no one_ can tsk and tut over, because they’re gone _gone_. Everyone is gone, and he will cry all he likes.

 

He loathes it.

 

At length, at great cost of the only comfort available in these eonic moments, he rights himself, unbows his head gilded of curls, wipes his nose on his sleeve, and blinks away the blurred sorrow to see Dog, stretched on his stomach, whimpering between his paws, eyes watching him with startlingly human wisdom. At the sight of his master watching back, he scurries to his feet, and trots over, immediately nuzzling Adam’s cheek, licking and snuffling, trying to coax a laugh, a smile, anything but his burdensome sorrow.

 

“Don’t suppose you saw what happened,” Adam whispers, his voice a wreck, a havoc. “Didn’t see where they went, huh, boy?”

 

Dog buries his nose in Adam’s armpit and sighs. Adam sighs with him.

 

“Okay,” he says, puts that defiance out in the world to see what becomes of it.

 

Still nothing.

 

 _Okay_.

 

It’s not.

 

He tries anyway.

 

“I think -” he begins aloud, because that feels better, sounds better beyond the silence suffocating itself. “I think I need to go.”

 

Because if he offers himself a choice, a facade of autonomy, a “yes or no” when only the abattoir lurks for an answer, he might ignore it yet, that bolt between the eyes. It’s better with choices. He’s braver for saying yes. That won’t stop the lip tremble, the gut twist, the doleful dread. That won’t stop Death. But it helps. It helps.

 

He moves as if divorced of himself, in echo iterations, watches himself float forward, gather the torches from the no man’s land of the wrecked blankets, the magazine, too, but only the page, the world of pastels. The tear of it skitters through the tombstone air, bereft of whimsy, a moth pinned down to corkboard and writhing for its life. Adam watches the flutter, now to his bedroom for a rucksack, provisions. What could those possibly be? What do you bring down the green mile? A change of clothes, the pocketknife Dad gave him for his last birthday. What else? Toothbrush. Mum will nag him, otherwise.

 

To the kitchen. Dog trotting sullen and wary beside him. Mum’s there, still there, still stolen of face and voice and everything. She sways, ever so, on a fallow rhythm, the sepulchral beat of the universe stopped, and Adam ensures to step out of time with it, stomping - erratic, a tight grimace against his clenched teeth - through the kitchen as he empties the bread box, then the lunch meats from the fridge, fills a thermos with water from the tap. Like he does on a school morning. 

 

His eyes fall, one last time, upon the sweets bowl. There’s little left, some bitter stale bonbons, a mummified rhubarb and custard. The rest is still buried deep, peppermint and starmix and a last few teaspoons of sherbet in cellophane, in his pockets. For his friends. For when he finds them. Wensleydale was never overfond of sugary things, so Adam will hug him extra hard to make up for it. And then Pepper can call them lugubrious (a word she picked up from some book about a murderous, American dentist), whatever that means. And Brian will choke on too much sherbet at once. And mum will make them cocoa. 

 

_TIME RUNS SHORT._

 

Adam jolts, a fresh spring of tears welling up (up again, always up), but falling dutifully down. Gravity still holds. There’s still an earth beneath his feet. 

 

“Okay,” he says, to the no one of everyone. The unlistening.

 

Little does he realize how desperately the universe hears him.

 

-

 

In the end, Dog was never to be deterred. Try as he might - and, well, he didn’t try very much at all - Adam could not convince the animal to stay, not by mum, not by the door, not even the garden for compromise. 

 

“It’s too dangerous,” the boy insists.

 

Which is precisely why I am _not_ letting you go alone, rebukes every whine and nip and hair bristling growl Dog can manage without actually harming his master. Adam must have forgotten he was there, too, the day at the airbase, snapping at ankles and saving the world.

 

“Fine then,” Adam sniffles, and Dog stands on his hind legs to lap the last of his master’s tears away.  

 

Usually, neither of them is keen on a lead, but it’s a welcome measure of safety, a certainty. This way, they won’t be separated. A few feet of leather and chain, and the last two sentient souls of Tadfield cling to either end. 

 

“Okay,” says Adam, has said, now, so many times that the word sits foreign on his tongue, lost in its meaning. He spits it out, “ _Okay_ ,” and - his rucksack tight around his shoulders, a torch in one hand, the lead in the other - throws open the front door.

 

“Oh,” he breathes, and sees, finally in full, the source of the silence that has permeated the house. 

 

When he’d glanced earlier out the window on his way to the kitchen, and then again through to the garden when he was trying to bribe Dog, he’d simply thought the weather had cleared. It looked gloom enough for the overcast afternoons the week has been resigning each daily storm to, and, well, with other more pressing concerns on his mind, he’d neglected to investigate further beyond donning his raincoat and wellies. 

 

Seems there’s little need for either, now. Or, maybe it’s entirely inadequate. What’s the protocol for rain that isn’t raining? Trepidation since abandoned the moment he resigned himself to Death’s clutches, Adam steals his breath and steps into it, into the air riddled with shivering, stopped raindrops, and braces for whatever may result.

 

His eyes squinted to a wince, he feels first and then sees the effect of his movements spoiling the rain’s impeccable suspension. The first, fat droplets in front of him, stuttered to a standstill cascade from their descent off the porch eave, bump lazily against his cheeks, and, with a terrific tremble, promptly return to their amorphous configuration, and splatter to the ground below, leaving comet tail streaks of acetic damp down his cheeks.

 

Adam’s first thought is how pleasant a change it is to the hot tears.

 

His next thought ineloquently attempts to articulate several, creative curses, until his mouth settles on a simple, “What the _hell_?”

 

Without ceremony, he takes another step, thrusting himself out into the deluge and, indeed, returning it to its proper state of torrential inundation. But not all of it. Through the battering storm ensconcing his person, he can still see that, where he is not, the rain, as well, is _not_ . Not raining. Not _doing_.

 

“What… I…” Adam looks down at his hands, upturns his palms to the plummeting droplets. 

 

A tenuous pool gathers there, overspills, slips between his fingers. In a frantic daze, he closes the gaps between each digit, collects another handful of the _doing_ rain. Carefully, he turns around, braces himself…

 

“Ha!” With a cry, he leaps backwards, and throws his hands up, splattering the water skyward in a diaphanous splay.

 

“ _No way_ ,” he gapes at the result, the _nothing_ that results. 

 

The spray stops, alongside the millions of droplets that were just above, around him. Where he no longer stands, the rain no longer falls. And where he does stand, well… he’s starting to get the hang of this.

 

Just to be sure, though, and because he’s something of a stickler for the scientific method, he repeats the action. Once more, twice, three for good measure. Dog dashes beside him, but can’t keep up, and finds himself caught in the _doing_ rain. 

 

“So it’s not you,” Adam says, breathless. It’s a shoddy experiment, at best, and Dog is hardly a control, but it’s something.

 

And so he concludes, “It’s me,” awestruck and forgetting, on a brief, relieving moment, the horror of everything else.

 

_ARE YOU DONE PLAYING._

 

And reality careens back into his chest, yanks the air from him in a startled shriek. 

 

_SURELY I MENTIONED THE SENSITIVITY OF THIS MATTER, PRINCE. THERE ARE STAKES._

 

“Oh yeah?” Adam yells. Up. Because it feels good to be mad there. He won’t hang his head, not for Death. “What, then! What’s at stake, huh!”

 

No answer.

 

Adam doesn’t wait for one.

 

“Come on,” he growls at Dog, and marches them off in the direction of the quarry, shepherding the rain as he goes and with a singular, scientific pursuit in mind: that being to put to test just how difficult it might be to punch Death in the face. 

 

-

 

Evidently, it’s quite impossible, not because Death proves a marked adversary; instead, come face to face again with the grim spectre - its coal pitch aura bejeweled in cancerous, semi-silver profusions of the _stopped_ rain - the vitriol boiling in the back of Adam’s throat crumbles to ash and sinks to his stomach. It churns there to a bile soaked concrete that sinks for his feet, leadening each timorous step he takes toward the thing languishing on its throne, and urging up a cacophony of snaps and crunches from the forest floor, rendering any sort of tactical approach a spectacularly loud failure.  

 

 _HELLO_ . Death says, _actually_ says, this time, not unwelcomely wormed into the space between Adam’s ears, but a tangible susurrus for the rest of the world to cower from.

 

A hand is exposed, then, a risk of cards dealt by no dealer, and clutched ragged from the felt of the universe.  

 

And It sounds so… so _less_. Drained of itself. As Adam nears, and nears, he recognizes the squirming swirls of ichor around the creature not as collapsed stars, eviscerated nebulae and the matter between matter. It is simpler. Almost human.

 

It, Death, the Harbinger of the only inevitability humanity can be certain of, is exhausted. 

 

And Adam, humanity incarnate, exhausted, too, but brave, _so brave_ , and with so much left to live, and love, and hate, and pity, with the world at a standstill, turning only for him, on his axis of youth and awe and _love so much love_ , trickling down, dampening his skin, his halo hair, soaking through these sobs of the last vestiges of creation, untethers the distance between them, marches up to the throne (his throne, Death’s throne, a child’s cathedra) and stares deeply into the gutted expanse of the End’s eye sockets.

 

“Hiya,” he says, and, without a second’s consideration for hesitation,  “You okay?”

 

Death smiles. It’s not a seen sort of thing. It exists in the same realm of obscurity where the rain’s momentum has gone to, where a mother’s face screams beside seven billion others. But Adam sees it. And then, when it is seen and understood, and when the final _cling_ of fear grounding Adam’s suspicion and hatred lets go, disappears into that same place, Death throws back Its head and laughs.

 

_YOU NEVER CEASE TO SURPRISE ME, PRINCE._

 

At the foot of the throne, Dog growls, low and feral in his throat, but makes no move toward his master, and especially not that monster. 

 

Ignoring the animal, Adam dithers, rocks on his heels, makes a rather screeching _squelch_ noise with his wellies as the rain continues to pour around him. It’s getting Death a bit damp, the hem of Its robe, so Adam takes a step back. 

 

“Sorry,” he says. “Don’t really know… why this’s happening.”

 

 _A QUESTION FOR THE PHILOSOPHIES_ , answers Death.

 

“Wait, don’t _you_ know?”

 

Adam blanches. He was so sure there would be solutions here, that Death just wanted a rematch - they did awfully humiliate It at the airbase. Adam was prepared to deal with that, to - to punch Death in its stupid, skeletal, smug face, and then his friends would reappear and mum would be okay, and the bloody rain would remember how it was supposed to work. 

 

The entity merely cocks its head.

 

_WHAT GAVE YOU SUCH AN IMPRESSION?_

 

“You did!” Blurts Adam, stabbing an accusing finger. “You - you - stole mum’s face! And my friends!”

 

He stumbles down the steps of the throne, thunder booming in his wake. 

 

 _WHAT REASON WOULD I HAVE TO TAKE THEM?_ Asks Death. _IT IS NOT THEIR TIME._

 

“Then what did you do to them!” 

 

Adam paces, wildly, arms flailing, flinging bits of water out beyond the sphere of his _doing_ , freezing them there until he turns round, retraces those steps, drags the water back into his fray.

 

 _NOTHING._ Says Death. _AND THAT IS WHY WE ARE HERE, PRINCE._

 

“Stop _calling_ me that,” Adam spits. “What do you mean _nothing_ . You can’t - can’t be ‘live without a _face_. An’ an’ friends don’t just disappear!”

 

_YOURS DID._

 

“Where!”

 

In a fit of rage, Adam snags a rock from the forest floor and heaves it at Death.

 

“Where are they! _Where_!”

 

The rock, on a devastating projectile, finds itself suddenly disinterested in the affair of “smashing in the face of Death” and tumbles back to the ground at the edge of Adam’s sphere of _doing_.

 

Great.

 

He can’t even throw a bloody _rock_.

 

 _I DO NOT KNOW,_ answers Death, plainly, patiently. 

 

There is a pain to it, but Adam doesn’t hear that. There is only the blood in his ears, the burn behind his eyes. 

 

 _BUT THERE ARE RENDS,_ Death continues. _THERE ARE SUSPICIONS. COUNTLESS MANY, BUT THEY ARE THERE._

 

“What does that _mean_ ,” Adam pleads, crumpling to his knees. The earth beneath him, soft and pliant from his rain, does not bruise him. 

 

_I DO NOT KNOW._

 

“Then what _good_ are you! _Why_ did you bring me here? What’m I s’posed to _do_!”

 

Plain, plaintive, _pleading_. Very, very pained. 

 

 _HELP ME_.

 

Adam shivers. The rain drum drum drums its fingers on his hood, his nose, a thousand million watery ellipses. 

 

“What d’you mean?”

 

Death stands - _pained_ \- steadies Itself on the arms of the throne, hunched where It once loomed. 

 

_THE WORLD IS WRONG, PRINCE. I CANNOT SAY WHY, I CANNOT SEE WHY. BUT THERE ARE ABERRATIONS, FLAWS IN THIS DESIGN. YOU ARE ONE OF THEM. IT IS BECAUSE OF YOU I STILL STAND. BUT I AM WEAK, AND TIME IS FRAYING. YOU MUST HELP ME FIND THE OTHERS._

 

“And - and what about my friends? What about mum?”

 

And the countless people he saw _stopped_ on the way here, not terribly many - not a nice day to be out and about - but seen nonetheless. Known. Stopped. But they are unimportant. He thinks of them only out of an obligation to empathy. 

 

 _IN HELPING ME,_ says Death, _YOU WILL HELP THEM. YOU WILL HELP EVERYONE._

 

Adam sits on this, lets it dissolve on his tongue, a taste of blood from a scratched scab.

 

“How.”

 

_I COULD NOT SAY._

 

“Oh, perfect,” Adam huffs, and hiccups around a building sob. 

 

_YOU MISUNDERSTAND ME, PRINCE. I DO NOT KNOW FULLY, BUT IF I DID, I COULD NOT SAY. I AM BOUND BY GREATER CERTITUDES._

 

More than ever, Adam wishes Pepper were here. She’d know what “certitude” means, and then she’d tell everyone, and then, for good measure, she’d tell Death to bugger off. 

 

Tempted to do so himself, Adam bites his tongue, and instead asks, as civilly as he can manage, “Then what d’we do? What do _I_ do? How… how do I help you?”

 

Death hums, a reverberant, chittery sound: whispers through a marrowless spine, an anemic deliberation. 

 

At length It says, _I WILL NEED YOU TO LEAD ME._

 

“Why?”

 

_I CANNOT INVITE MYSELF TO IMMORTALS._

 

“Why not?”

 

Death sighs, this a cincture sound of the hangman’s grip, a slither-tear force of exasperation through Its rotting mandible.

 

 _ALL WELCOME ME, EVENTUALLY_ , It explains. _EVEN THOSE WHO THINK THEY CANNOT. THESE TWO ARE JUST… STUBBORN. I NEED YOU TO INTRODUCE ME._

 

Adam frowns, brows pulling tight together in consternation. He rubs his nose. That’s what Dad does when he’s thinking. Surely, it must help.

 

“Okay but, to who? Everyone else’s…” Adam trails off, weary as a child should never be. 

 

“Everyone else’s gone.”

 

_NOT EVERYONE._

 

Adam shrugs, hangs his head for Death. He cares little for anyone that isn’t mum or dad or Pepper or Brian or Wensleydale. Who else matters? Why should he care? Dog, doing what he can in the moment, crawls into his lap and whines.

 

 _DO YOU REMEMBER_ , entreats Death, and the rain around the boy displaces, parts the veil of its _doing-ness_ as the spectre approaches. 

 

_YOU KNOW THEM. THEY TOLD YOU OF HUMANITY. THEY HELPED YOU TO LOVE IT AGAIN._

 

Adam perks up at that, a spark illuminating the roiling storm in his head. 

 

_AGENTS OF THE BETWEEN, PRINCE. LIKE YOU._

 

Adam can’t conceive of why Death has to be so bloody cryptic, but, regardless, it clicks, fits ever so neatly into the bastardized narrative of the day. Of _course_ they would be fine. An angel and demon surely wouldn’t fall victim to something so simple as reality unwinding itself. They do that by sheer contradiction of their existence. 

 

“Oh…”

 

Death smirks, teeth peering out from the folds of Its hood as Adam looks up.

 

_YOU UNDERSTAND, THEN? WHAT WE MUST DO, WHERE WE MUST GO?_

 

Adam nods, and then, with a more scrutinous consideration of the question, shakes his head. 

 

“I - I mean, yes?” Nudging Dog out of his lap, he stands, bringing the rain as high as Death’s wrists, and wavers back a step, having forgotten how imposing the spectre is pulled up to Its full glory. “I know… who they are. I mean, but… I don’t know - know _where_ they are, is the thing.”

 

Death waves a hand, dismissing the comment.

 

_A TRIVIAL ISSUE, PRINCE. I WILL TAKE US TO THEM._

 

“Oh!” Adam rocks on his heels. “Oh. Okay. Er…”

 

Strangely, somehow, despite the surreality of quite literally standing in the presence of Death, the ever infallible human tendency toward awkward small talk and its subsequent fizzling out sinks its teeth into the moment, into the catacombs of their conversation, the absurdity of a boy shrouded in rain chit-chatting with the dithering spire of Death.

 

“Erm…”

 

_UHM…_

 

Dog, typically immune to such finicky rituals of the two-legged social circle, finds even this too unbearable and buries his snout in a patch of moss.

 

“Why…” Adam rubs his nose again, thinks carefully on his next words. “Why d’you keep calling me that?”

 

Had Death any discernible eyes, they would blink, as owlish as you please, with a dash of carrion for good measure, but surprised all the same.

 

_PARDON?_

 

“Prince,” Adam says. “You keep calling me prince. Why?”

 

 _I… YOU WOULD NOT CALL ME “PUSHING UP DAISIES” WOULD YOU?  IT IS A MATTER OF HONORIFICS, AND YOU_ **_ARE_ ** _THE PRINCE OF HELL._

 

“No,” Adam balks. “No no. No I’m not, I -”

 

From Its robes, Death reveals a set of hands, a scattering of knuckles and metacarpals, filigree phalanges. It braces them on Adam’s shoulders, silences him, steadies him. 

 

 _YOU ARE,_ It says. _PERHAPS NOT AS YOU ONCE KNEW, NOR AS YOU WERE ONCE DESTINED, BUT THERE ARE CONSTANTS, IMMUTABLE TRUTHS. HALF OF BLOOD, WHOLE OF HUMAN. IT DOES NOT MATTER. YOU ARE THE PRINCE OF HELL, AND YOUR DENIAL DEFINES YOU AS ADAM._

 

“What does that mean?” 

 

 _EVERYTHING,_ says Death. _AND NOTHING. WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE IT TO MEAN?_

 

“That we won!” Adam croaks, strangling heat crawling back up his throat. “We won! I thought we _won_ . I - I want it to be _over_. I want my friends and - and my mum and - and -”

 

Humans are curious. That, too, is immutable. Wondering, wonderful, impossible, always a source of awe and comedy for the live studio audience of the universal laugh track. Fantastically unpredictable, deliciously gullible, they quickly stumble their way into situations that, were it not for the amusement of it all, might tear apart the very sensible stitches of reality. Take for instance, the taming of wolves into teacup chihuahuas. Hilarious! And very nearly the cause of a billion star pile up on the space-time freeway. Genius, _stupid_ little creatures, humans are. And, when pushed to it, when everything comes to a crumble with only Death left to stare down, what do they do? Embrace it, of course.

 

And in the case of Adam Young, still-Prince-of-Hell, quite literally, at that.

 

He can’t help it. Who else is there? It’s instinct, it’s reflex, it’s _the-world-is-falling-apart-and-I’m-so-so-scared._

 

He pitches forward. He pulls Death to him. With arms he wishes he could just reach wide enough, span out, extend the whole of himself and pull everything in, into his little sphere of _doing_ so that, maybe, he could bring it all back, fix it like that… Instead, there is only Death, and Adam clings to It for dear life. 

 

“ _I don’t want this_ ,” he sobs, his tears flooding rivulets into the oil slick of Death’s cloak. 

 

 _THAT IS NOT YOUR DECISION TO MAKE,_ says Death. Winces Death. It is not tenable to be held so close, not like this.

 

“ _Is’not fair, is’not fair…_ ”

 

It’s terribly safe, there, face pressed to Death, limbs sinking into It, going television static in It. It’s so easy to slip in, away. So silent.

 

And he is wrenched from It. The spring of Life in him, yet, and boiling up from the wound in his heart.

 

Death recoils, rasping.

 

Dog yelps.

 

The rain does, and does not.

 

The Prince of Hell looks up through it, eyes heavy-drenched but wider than they have ever been. 

 

 _IT IS NOT YOUR DECISION, ADAM,_ Death knells. _I AM SORRY, BUT THIS IS THE FATE OF US._

 

And the boy, defiant of soul and beautiful in its bloom, a dandelion in concrete, holds out his hand. 

 

“Then let’s fix this,” he says. 

 

And, somewhere in that in between, where the smile of Death goes to contemplate itself and a trillion breaths bate for its answer, in a scatter of corpses torn asunder by the fever dreams of philosophers, in the blood and birth of it… a single daisy pushes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I genuinely thrive on comments, so please let me know anything that's on your mind. I'm playing with some complicated concepts and worried im not conveying them in the most precise manner, so if there's confusion, dont hesitate to ask. I never expect perfection from myself, and this is just a hobby, but I'm prouder of this chapter than most things I've written, and coming back after such a long hiatus with veritable word vomit is,,, oof,,, nerve wracking. So yeah, I'll cry if you leave me words, also <3


	4. sus(s)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eyup, said I was gonna keep at this weekly if I could help it. Altogether I'd say expect a new chapter every Friday/Saturday god willing I can wrangle these ideas into a cohesive narrative. Also special shout out to AgeOfAlejandro, your enthusiasm last chapter really kept me motivated, and I mad appreciate it <3

 

It’s a funny odd thing when Death comes knocking. For one, such an occurrence is typically relegated to realms of idiomatic platitudes. Furthermore, It doesn’t pay house calls to the immortal - rather defeats the purpose, that. Perhaps most perplexing, though, and just a _tad_ bit rude, _this_ Death hadn’t even the courtesy to ring the bell. Instead, It’s stood there, filling up the door frame to its hinges, and holding the hand of Adam Young who is - oh dear - absolutely _soaked_ to the bone, the poor boy! With a flare for the paternal, Aziraphale - unthinking but for how miserable the child looks - makes to bustle over, gather the boy up, and set him to rights with some tea and a wing-powered blow drying. He doesn’t, of course, there’s the matter of Death, still, and the viper-vice grip of Crowley’s claws around his elbow and wrist, pinioning the angel’s arm. Crowley, for his part, is content to cling and drive his teeth through the fork in his tongue, a necessary precaution to stay himself from reverting to full python and strangling the corporeality from Death’s weather balloon of a body.

 

As well, there’s the issue of Adam wearing naught but hopeful expectancy on his weary face, and the _absurdity_ of this ‘we’ he’s so casually thrown out in the open. And he’s _still_ holding Death’s hand with the endearment of an old friend. So, yeah. There’s _that_.

 

Aziraphale is the first to brave the silence, a cold fury prickling up from the depths of his twisting stomach. 

 

“Adam, dear,” he starts. “Do you - are you… aware of what is happening right now?”

 

 _PLEASE DO NOT PATRONIZE US,_ answers Death in Adam’s stead, as calmly as if It were were contemplating having a sit down in Non-Fiction, a cup of tea in hand, and maybe, if It’s up to the task, tearing out an angel’s trachea for a bookmark. _ASK WHAT YOU NEED TO KNOW, WE WILL ANSWER AS WE ARE ABLE._

 

Crowely, a bit quicker on his feet and always ready for a snark, takes a bold step forward, interposing himself between the spectre and Aziraphale, and growls, “Alright, first and foremost, what the _fuck_ is going on.”

 

He leaves no room for debate; it’s a demand. 

 

“My - my mum’s gone,” answers Adam timidly. “And Pepper an’ Brian an’ Wensleydale.”

 

“Dear, why don’t - why don’t you come over here and we can talk,” Aziraphale peers around the safety of Crowley’s broad shoulders, gesturing for the boy. 

 

To the horror of both angel and demon, Adam shakes his head.

 

“No I’m… alright. He’s alright, you know,” Adam pats - actually _pats,_ what the _bloody_ hell? - Death’s arm. “I told you, we need help, an’ - an’ he thinks you can - can do it. Help, I mean.”

 

“Come again?” Crowley scowls over the rim of his sunglasses. “Th’hell does that mean?”

 

 _IT MEANS, DEMON,_ booms Death. _THAT THE WORLD IS NOT RIGHT, AND WE ARE WHAT REMAINS._

 

“Ohh enig _matic_ ,” Crowley chirps, clapping his hands together, “I _do_ so love that. S’if we didn’t have enough to deal with!”

 

“Crowley, please,” whispers Aziraphale, and steps fully round him, now, still rather petrified of Death’s presence, but Its lack of… well… blighting them all to plague and cinders reassures him, somewhat. But only just.

 

“Adam,” he tries again, and holds out a hand for the boy. “Please will you come here and explain?”

 

“Only if he can, too,” says Adam, clutching tighter to Death. 

 

“Adam,” warns Aziraphale, struggling to tamp down the rippling urge of wings beneath his backbone. 

 

“He’s not gonna hurt you!” Protests the boy. “He didn’t hurt me. He wants to _help_.”

 

“Epicurus is rolling in his grave,” quips Crowley indignantly. “ _Death wants to help_ ,” he derides, “good _grief_.”

 

“He does!” Adam insists, and looks expectantly up at his spectral partner. 

 

The _hope_ in his eyes could vitiate the Pope. It isn’t _right_.

 

“Well let’s let _It_ say that then, huh?” Crowley, slithering out of Aziraphale’s attempts to grab him, stalks forward. 

 

He pulls himself to full height - an extra three inches asserting themselves from the slouch of his spine - and stares up Death: towering, unflinching Death.

 

“You wanna bloody help? Wanna explain why the world’s going to _shit_ and we can’t call up Head Office or anything? And maybe you wanna tell me _why_ your _bloody_ colleague waltzed in here and tore herself apart on this _perfectly decent floor_? S’traumatizing, you know?”

 

Death does not respond. Death does not move. Only the rattle of Its chest pulling pantomimes of breaths indicates It has acknowledged Crowley’s tirade. It’s a horribly expectant few seconds, and the demon regrets standing his ground so close. 

 

 _WHAT?_ Death finally creaks. 

 

Beside It, Adam yelps suddenly and scrabbles at his hand, the one trapped in Death’s, trying to tug it off.

 

“You’re hurting me!” The boy squeaks. 

 

“Let **_g̼̘̤͙̜͙̟̮̯̯̟͈͎o̰͇̟̥̼̼̥͍_ ** of him!” Crowley, spurred on a lashing burst of demonic adrenaline, lunges at Death, but the monster is far too swift.

 

In an arc of sinewy black, Its other slack hand seizes up, around Crowley’s throat, and heaves him off his feet, pinning him midair.

 

“Crowley!” Screams Aziraphale.

 

 **_S̼̦̐̈́P͉͈̩̠̏̈̌ͦ̓͢ͅE̸ͯA̭̘̙̩̲̠͛̒̍ͥ͘K̦͙̳̐ͭ ͓̣͕̼́͒̍ Ņ͕̥̪̳̖͖̘̆ͩO̭̟͈̦̳͚ͦ͊̓̍̚̕T̷̞͚̤̞̰̭̂ͬ ̭̗̹̞ͦ̿ͯͭ̈́͗ͭͅ L̜̅̆̇Iͨͪ͡Ȇ̩ͯ͑͠S̰͋ͮ̆ͤ̒͒̃͟ ̢ͬ͋ͮ T͔̟͉͖̟̺̾̒̍̊̊ͥO ͍̰̰̰͎̪̬M̲͚̪ͤ̋ͧͬ̒̆Ĕ̯̩͉̗͌ͦ̈͂ͧ͑,̺̘̰͉͈̣̇͆̉   ̪̫̤͍̆ͨ̊̑ͪ̉̉S̙̱̬̠ͮͣͯ̽̌̈͘ͅE̫̳ͫ̑́R̫͙̖͍̪͆̊ͫ̎̐͠P͓̥̤̺̘͉ͥͨ̌̒Ẽ̴͔̲̼̌̂ͪN̠͓͔̰̊͌ͦT̥̳͖̩̯̬͉.͓̥͓͇̌̂̇̀͝_ ** _̛̔ͪ̍_

 

“Stop!” Adam, wrenching free his hand, beats upon Death’s body, plunges his fists into the facade of Its corporeality. “Stop it! Stop!”

 

 **_I͑ͧͦ ͮ͛̏W͓͉̣͇̲̠ͤͫ̽̒ͯ̒I̱̯̯ͤ̒͌ͪ̈͋L̩̭̜̹͔ͦ̚L͎͗̍́͐̈̓ͅ ̻̣͓͙̾ͫ̀ͅT̗̠̃ͨÊ̞̱̦͚̿Ạ̳̳̅̔ͪ̃R̺ͫ͆̍ͪ ̪̙̉ͥ̑ͯͧͩ̔T̬̜̭̗̣̣ͤ̒̋ͅH͖̝̩̽͂̔E̙̼̩̜͐ ̞͖̻̖B͍̺͓̭͉ͩL̘̘̥̭̤͂̈ͣ̔A̹̜͈̲̤̣̋̈́S̆ͪ̄ͨ̐P̯͒ͫH̗͌ͧ̓̿̑̉̔E̱M͒͆̿̌̚Y̤͇̠͍̘̝̬͊̿ͨ͆̈ ̝̭̎ͭͨ͌̂̌F̩̘̩̹̋R͇̺̫͑̾ͪ̔̈ͫ̚O̤̪̬̗̺ͩ̍ͫ̃M͉̳̝̼͗̒ͤ͐̆̚ ͎̮̌̊̌Y͒̐O̥͎̓̃̏̒̽U̠̩̣̝̳̾̋̓R̗͚̳͈ͤ̅͂ ̝̩̱͔̎ͧͧ̇̌ͨT̜̱̘̋̄ͪ̒̐ͤͅO͙̍ͣ͌ͦͦ͌͗N͓̰ͧͩ̓ͨG̘͈̼̰̫͎͕̔ͣ̉ͮU̗͉͓͕̟̳͈ͦ̈́ͫ͛̔͗Ḛ̞͎͆ͪ.̳ͮ̍̇͊̇̒ ̯͖̠͇̬͂W̼͎̹̉̈́ͤ̈́Hͪ̀ͤO̬̥ͭ͌̚ ͇̰̻̐̿̂ͧ̍̆I͍̫͕͔ͪ͐͂S̹̩̥̎́̂̚ ̯̱͇T͉̰̼͙͉̐̚H̟̻͇̞͕̯͉ͮ͒̓I̝̺͕̻͕̟̱̾̉͑̏Sͦͤ͗̂ͣ̈́ ̙̤͙̪͚̥̱ͫͨ̂̍Y͖̬̰͓̝̱̱O̖ͯ̍ͮ̂Ụ̣̣̥̥ͪ͊̽ͧ_ ** **_̠͓̖̮̺̘ͬ͛̂ͬS̯̮̭̘̥̖P̤̟̗Eͬ͆ͣ̿Ḁ̜͊́̾̉K̼͉̻̜̳̮̓̆ͫ̽̒̅ O̯͖̣̞ͤͣF̙̣̹̰͎͚͇ͣͥ̑͐͌̂̾._ **

 

Crowley rages, kicks and spits and roils his eyes to ochre and venom, but Death’s grip is composed of finality incarnate, the physicality a mere suggestion. Underneath, writhing and tortuous, souls of the ages embolden each finger, each tendon. Black encroaches with devouring determination.

 

But then -

 

**_R̈̽̈̀̂ͭeͨͦl̓ͫͪ͊͆e̅̐ͫa͒̉ͨsͮ̄e̿͗͒ ͪͥhͪ́̈ỉͬ̈́̋͑ͧ͆m̔, ͫͭ̂ͣBͦ̽ͧͫe̓ͤ̈́̓̅ͤas̚t̿͛̇͋̎́̚.̌͊ͧ̿_ **

 

And Death relents, dropping Crowley to the floor in a sprawl of hacking coughs.

 

Aziraphale flares a last, torrid blaze of his halo, illuminating the skull set endlessly deep into those infinite folds of black. Death sees him, but Adam and Crowley do not, and, quickly, Aziraphale tucks away his wings, shivering them into the space between the mortally supposed and the celestially comprised. A distinct, dull ache accompanies the effort of it, and he groans, the eyes littering his clenched fists wincing before they, too, shut themselves away, though not before affixing a last, righteous glare unto Death.

 

“There now,” the angel huffs, straightening the lapels of his jacket. “We’ll have _none_ of that.”

 

Death does not respond, deigns only to stand there, simmering and potent and nightshade vicious. At the foot of Its robes, Adam falls to his knees, uselessly placing his hands on Crowley, nudging at his shoulder, terrified to do much else.

 

“I’m sorry,” the boy sobs. “I’m sorry, I din’t - we din’t -”

 

“My dear,” Aziraphale, unafraid now, crouches beside Adam. “It’s alright. He’s fine,” and then, for the demon playing at dramatics, “Oh do get up, Crowley. You’re scaring the boy.”

 

“ _I’m_ scaring him?” Crowley wheezes, but does sheepishly unfold himself from the floor. “I’m sorry, who just got choked out by Death?”

 

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. There’s a distinct finesse to the way these entities operate, and that was _nothing_ on the spectacle of War. A temper tantrum, that’s all it was.

 

“If It had meant to kill,” the angel admonishes. “It would have have done so. Am I correct, _dear_?”

 

He sneers sunnily at Death, and the spectre shrinks a centimeter.

 

_I DID NOT APPRECIATE HIS INSINUATIONS._

 

 _“_ What the _bollocks_ was I _insinuating_?!” Crowley staggers to his feet, crowds himself right up in Death’s face again. “I told you what your little compatriot did! Couldn’t’ve been more obvious!”

 

 _IT SEEMS THERE HAS BEEN SOME MISCOMMUNICATION, THEN_ , replies Death tetchily. 

 

Crowley laughs bitterly, “Yeah! Yeah there sure has! Death’s at the door, and It’s got Adam Young, Former Prince of Hell with him. War exploded. Heaven won’t pick up. And the whole, bloody world’s lost signal! Is that about right? Did I get it all?”

 

A decided “gawk” pronounces itself from the unplumbed depths of Death’s hood, not in visible expression, mind, but the sentiment smolders, a gleed starved of oxygen now finding a breath of air.

 

_...SHE WHAT?_

 

Crowley drags his claws down his face, careful not to scratch, but too damn pissed off to put them away. 

 

“You are _so_ fucking dense, you know that?”

 

Aziraphale, shooting Crowley a look just a degree less wrathful than a ticked off hornet, intervenes, “What my friend _means_ to say, is that your, erm, that we were paid something of a nasty little visit from Miss Zinderberg.”

 

Death stares. Its eyes are unseen, but they distinctly _see._  Hard not to feel such a gaze squirming over the flesh of one’s own eyelids.

 

Aziraphale swallows thickly and clarifies, “She - she discorporated, I’m afraid. Here, I mean. Well,” he takes a step back and waves a dismissive hand at the place of War’s desiccation.

 

“ _Here_ , specifically.”

 

Death - merciless, unwaveringly absolute - falters.

 

It stumbles to the ashes of Its fallen friend, and, to a charade of prone knees, Falls, Itself, there in the heart of it, the eye of War’s parched storm, a heavy, thick wheeze expelling the voluminous billows of Its inky silhouette. Somewhere -  _the place of contemplations, impossible forms_ \- a cry uncoils from a perch among brittle ribs, soars wounded and disused, and plummets from the mouth of Death. 

 

“Th’ _fuck_?” On instinct, Crowley grabs Aziraphale and hauls them both back.

 

Adam remains, horror-struck but with too much sorrow in his young eyes. 

 

“ _Please_ ,” begs Aziraphale. “Adam please, it’s not sa-”

 

“He’s hurt,” the boy says, a plaintive sob building on the words. “He’s hurt, can’t you see?”

 

“Death doesssn’t _hurt_ , kid,” Crowley hisses. 

 

 _YOU KNOW NOTH͔̙̦͚I͔̯NG OF MY S̘̺̙̘̠͎͛ͣ̇UFFERINGS, D͝E͠M҉ON_ , deplores Death, Its supplication shuddering. _YOU KNOW NOTHING OF THI̛S̕͏._

 

“Then let us _all_ calm down, and _discuss_ things,” Aziraphale answers back, brandishing upturned palms in a show of truce. 

 

Once upon a Principality, he prided himself for a variety of virtues. Patience, however, was never one, and he’s losing what little he had to begin with. And while he’s hardly keen to accuse Death of theatrics, this is decidedly ridiculous. First War, now Death upon his doorstep, each more farcical than the last. Is Famine next? Come to deplete the angel’s vintage stock? Well, he’ll be in for a _surprise_ , then; Aziraphale does not relinquish his best wine, easily. 

 

It’s an irrelevant tangent, however, and presently he would like to see Death not in a sprawl of Its own “woe is me” misery. He’d like not to see It at all, but _seeing_ as Adam Young has so carelessly dragged It in - heel of the dog-shit-shoe and all that - a modicum of propriety is in order. And a _bloody_ good explanation, for sure.

 

“We’ll all have a sit down,” the angel continues, judiciously. “Some tea, I think, and a towel for you,” he shakes his head at Adam. “You’re dripping all over.”

 

“Wait a sec,” mumbles Crowley beside him, and then darts over to the boy, plucks at his arms, the hood of his jacket, glowering at the offending rain drenching through.

 

“You’re _wet_ ,” He accuses. “Why are you _wet_?”

 

“Crowley!” It’s Aziraphale’s turn to hiss, but there’s far less venom to it than even Crowley’s weakest flick of the tongue. The demon steadily ignores him.

 

“You’re _wet_ , but it’s definitely _not_ raining. You’ve seen that, yeah? Did you two have something to do with it? Death, I _swear_ to -”

 

The demon yelps as the boy gives an abrupt and surprisingly forceful shove.

 

“It _is_ raining,” Adam spits. “Around _me_.”

 

“What?” Echo Crowley and Aziraphale in unison.

 

 _EXPLANATIONS, THEN, EH?_ Jeers Death, back on Its feet(?) although the flow of Its robe deflates, somewhat, around Its jagged-jut shoulders.

 

“ _None_ of that, please, thank _you_ ,” warns Aziraphale. Crowley’s sarcasm is well and enough for the lot of them. 

 

Death does not shy away this time, but does stay whatever constitutes Its tongue from offering further rejoinder.

 

“But yes,” the angel continues. “ _If_ you please. Adam? I must insist you come here and dry off, you’ll catch your - er…”

 

Death produces a remarkable atmosphere of “raising one’s eyebrow” and hurtles it at the angel in an oppressive cloud of disdain.

 

 _DO PLEASE GO ON_ , It deadpans. 

 

Crowley snorts, and the frayed atmosphere in the shop ceases threatening to snap, unburdening the strain of its dread just a hair. 

 

And then Adam freezes, eyes blown wide with panic. 

 

“Wait,” he says.

 

And then, “Where’s Dog?”

 

The entire room exhales. There’s a laugh for it somewhere - probably in that _contemplation place_.

 

 _UH…_ Death stammers, raises a hand to where Its mouth might be in another one of Its disturbing caricatures.

 

“Did you not bring Dog?” Adam rounds on the spectre with a fury as potent as his pity had been seconds prior. “You just _left_ him?”

 

_I - I AM SORRY, I -_

 

“Go get him, _right now_ !” Adam shouts. “And don’t you _dare_ do anything to him.

 

“Now!” The boy exclaims as Death dithers.

 

In a blink, a breath, an inversion of reality - a not-there collapse of the air - Death obediently disappears, metaphorical tail between Its robes.

 

“I -” says Aziraphale.

 

“Er -” agrees Crowley, and then laughs, full and helpless and obscene.

 

“Sorry sorry sorry,” he wheezes, doubling over. “Sorry you just - I mean _-_ did you _really_ just tell Death to fuck off?”

 

“I told him t’get Dog,” Adam retorts. “What’s so funny?”

 

“Bloody teenagers,” the demon says. “Love the lotta ya.”

 

“ _Do_ shut up, my dear,” Aziraphale interrupts, shoving past the demon and finally gathering Adam up in his well manicured and ever fussy hands. “My apologies, Adam. Today has proved something of a _test_. We can’t all keep our constitutions.”

 

“Oi,” Crowley jerks his index and middle finger at Aziraphale. 

 

“Ignore him,” the angel mutters, and bustles Adam further into the shop, flicking an absent thought at the door as he does. 

 

The door obliges to shut itself, but only with a great deal of whinging on the hinges.

 

“There now, that was a _dreadful_ draft.”

 

“Sure, Angel, _scold_ the kid while you’re at it.”

 

“I was merely _observing_.”

 

“Yeah yeah,” Crowley grumbles, “get on with it.

 

“Maybe ol’ Bonesy won’t find us upstairs,” he adds under his breath.

 

Aziraphale tuts but does not protest, and, having the same thought as Crowley, hurriedly shepherds Adam away. The demon slouches after and contemplates the absurdity of the day.

 

Amazing, really, how delightedly the universe throws problem after problem at their feet, a cosmic feline barfing up the heads of constellations for their perusal, and it’s culminated in _this_ . Tea for Death and a towel for Adam. Or something. Crowley struggles around an apt analogy, his brain dashed on the rocks of his grey matter, and only just feebly grappling onto clarity. War, rain that isn’t raining, Death, Adam. Death _and_ Adam? Friends?? Death the errand - er - entity??? He comes close to praying that Aziraphale plans on offering something stronger than tea, though he’s not holding out on either account. He shoots a glare Up There for good measure.

 

The angel, meanwhile, doing what he does best, frets utterly and fully over Adam, a mother hen with feathers a-ruffle, promptly shucking the boy from his soaked coat and bundling two very white and miracled towels around him

 

“So sorry they’re not warmer,” he tuts. “Only I’m a bit frazzled, but at least we have them, mm? Yes, minor positives.”

 

It’s a put on effort for the boy’s sake, and he puffs a bit for breath, the exertion of whisking the towels into existence and the general _pulse-rending_ anxiety of the afternoon catching up to him at last, it seems.

 

Crowley joins the two of them in a lounge of limbs against the counter’s edge, elbow braced on the hob, tetris-ing himself into the cramped space.

 

It’s a terribly claustrophobic kitchen, the whole of the upstairs apartment miracled for schematic’s sake rather than actual comfort of living, seeing as neither occupant of the bookstore below deals much with domestic niceties. 

 

“Why _were_ you wet, anyway?” He asks, offering another flash of his index and middle finger as Aziraphale leverages _a look_. 

 

“Children do _often_ enjoy a good mud puddle, Crowley,” the angel sniffs. “A simple explanation. He was out in the storm before this - _this_ happened. Is that correct, dear?”

 

“M’not a child,” grumbles Adam, tucking the towel around his head tighter under his chin. “And no, actually. You’re not.”

 

“Ha,” crows Crowley. “Told ya.”

 

Another _look_ , and this successfully subdues the demon.

 

“I w’sat home,” Adam continues, ignoring the immortal domestic. “Me an’ Pepper an’ Brian an’ Wensleydale…”

 

“And your mother, too,” says Aziraphale, going through the motions of tea. 

 

He suspects it would be disingenuous to simply miracle a perfect blend, so he’s putting in the extra effort.

 

“Yeah,” Adam nods, staring dazedly ahead. “An’ then, I went to ask her somethin’ but her - her…”

 

Adam quakes inside his cocoon of towels.

 

“Her face was gone,” the boy whispers. “An’ she wasn’t talking. Or moving or anything. An’ then everyone else was gone, too. Not like Mum, I mean. I went back t’the living room an’ they - an’ they were all gone.”

 

Despite the rush of words, a foreboding miasma diffuses into the kitchen-clutter air, a gloom and glower upending the meager relief of a promised cuppa.

 

“I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale says, lamely, not for want of sympathy - never that - just it’s rather difficult to offer it in any meaningful consequence.

 

The condolence, useless in the scheme of these grander horrors, provides little comfort to the boy, and Aziraphale fixes another _look_ at Crowley. His own hands are occupied by tea things, so the least the demon can do is chip in the bare minimum.

 

 _Oh_ , mouths Crowley, and sidling over, halting a foot to Adam’s right, sets about performing the impossible task of “emotional reassurance” by resting his hands awkwardly about the boy’s shoulders, then the top of his head. It’s been a substantial age since he’s played the role of doting nanny, and even then Warlock demanded fairly little physical affection. Drunken sprawls with his angel absolutely do not count in the realms of experience, so Crowely consigns the moment to a grimace and weathers the worst of it. Adam, for his part, voices no objection, just keeps on with these sad, lost little sounds, each one plucking - discordant and rusty - what few strings anchor Crowley’s heart in his demonic chest. He refuses to acknowledge the pain of it, but does amend his technique, finding a rhythm of circular motions with his palm that appears to soothe the boy.

 

“ _Hurry it up and quit staring_ ,” he whispers stridently when he catches Aziraphale’s curious stare.

 

Demon or not, what kind of monster wouldn’t comfort a scared little boy? Admittedly it’s a degree divorced of convincing said little boy to battle Satan, but Crowley has his own personal standards. Presently, they preside over Adam Young and “preventing a full blown panic attack”. On both their behalves.

 

Aziraphale relents, puts up a quiet clamor of porcelain and pouring sounds, and seconds later, announces, “There we are,” blessedly interrupting Crowley’s spiralling monologue.

 

Planting himself in front of Adam, the angel proffers the cup of aromatic tea, waiting until the boy manages to extricate his hands from the blasted, heaven-down towels. It takes a minor age, but he eventually succeeds.

 

“Thanks,” Adam sups cautiously at the tea, and the pallor of his cheeks fills out to a meek but healthier glow.

 

It’s Crowley’s turn to _look_ at Aziraphale, but the angel just rolls his eyes. So what if there’s a spot of ambrosial honey slipped in there? The boy can bloody well use it after the day he’s had.

 

“Now,” the angel presses, as soon as a sparkle of light returns to Adam’s eyes. “You were saying? After your mum and all.”

 

Adam winces, but draws strength with another gulp of tea, and continues, “I forgot t’say, when I was with mum, I - I heard him. Death, I mean. He was speakin’ t’me. In my head. Said she couldn’t hear me. Said I could help my friends.”

 

“If?” Hedges Aziraphale.

 

He bets right, and Adam sighs, “If I went to him. Found him, and all.”

 

Another swallow of tea, and a grit of punctuating teeth. Ambrosia only goes so far; inevitably the bitter burn of leaves seeps its way back through. Still, Aziraphale bates the myriad questions battering his brain and reaches for Crowley. The demon does not protest, and in fact welcomes the curl of Aziraphale’s fingers through his, squeezes them.  

 

“So I did,” Adam says, unprompted. They must let him come to his own terms, and, slowly, he’s finding them. “I got some stuff together, an’ me an’ Dog-”

 

A heavy pause steals the boy’s momentum, tears welling up in his eyes.

 

“He’ll be back,” assures Aziraphale. If nothing else, you can always hold Death to Its word. “Dog is okay. Please. Go ahead, dear.”

 

“An’ we went outside, an’ the rain was - it just -”

 

“Wasn’t?” Offers Crowley. 

 

In the twine of Aziraphale’s fingers, the demon’s hand trembles.

 

“But then it _was_ ,” Adam breathes. “It _was_ raining. But only around me. Like, I mean -”

 

He thrusts up his arms in a wide arc, sending his tea skyward with the motion, but Aziraphale immediately wills it sat and unsplit on the counter top.

 

“Sorry,” mumbles the boy, but does not let the interruption deter him. “Jus’, all around me, it was raining, an’ I tested it to see, an’ it wasn’t like, a cloud followin’ me. It was like, where _I_ went, the rain started raining again. And when I moved away, it stopped.”

 

Sighing heavily, Adam tucks his hands into his lap, fidgeting them, there. 

 

“I -” 

 

“Uh -”

 

Sharing another moment of bewilderment, Crowley and Aziraphale exchange uneasy glances.

 

“I don’t know why,” Adam insists, as if he’s in trouble somehow. “I swear, I -”

 

_IT IS BECAUSE YOU ARE LIFE, ADAM YOUNG._

 

“ _Bloody Mary and Jesus H Christ_!” Crowley yelps, flinging each curse directly into the elbow that has suddenly jutted itself into his face.

 

The appendage muffles the worst of it, but Aziraphale still hears, though the angel is more focused on the faceful of _robe_ he has received. 

 

Death, the damned bastard, has recorporated Itself right in the middle of the kitchen, contorting Itself politely enough around Adam, but effectively insinuating Itself among every nook and cranny of remaining personal space. The cherry of it all - a volley of frantic barks and growls - shatters entirely the meager facade of calm the angel and demon had curated for Adam’s frazzled nerves.

 

“Dog!” Elates the boy, anyway.

 

 _I HAVE RETRIEVED YOUR BEAST_ , confirms Death. _MY APOLOGIES FOR THE DELAY. HE DOES NOT LIKE ME, AND IS VERY GOOD AT HIDING. YOU MUST UNDERSTAND THIS IS A DEMONIC COMBINATION OF TRAITS IN AN ANIMAL._

 

“Oi!” Crowley shouts around Death’s funny bone. “Don’t pin it on me!” 

 

_NO I SUPPOSE YOU ONLY DEAL WITH THE WRITHING AND LIMBLESS, EH, SERPENT?_

 

Crowley, having slunk to his scales to escape the kitchen, reassumes his human form in the doorway and bares his fangs at Death.

 

“Piss off, worm-breath.”

 

“Uncalled for, Crowley!” Calls Aziraphale from somewhere in the sea of black towering over Adam. “And, Death, please, if you wouldn’t mind putting some of yourself away?”

 

 _HMPH,_ sniffs Death, but does tuck Itself into a more accommodating loom.

 

For his part, Adam offers little by way of taming his friend, too distracted by Dog and the animal’s delighted yips and licks. 

 

“ _That_ was uncalled for,” Crowley says, as Aziraphale stumbles over, gesturing to the whole of Death. “We were finally getting somewhere.”

 

Death, similarly focused on Adam though with less blind enthusiasm as Dog, perks up at this and turns their way.

 

_SO WHAT HAS HE TOLD YOU IN MY ABSENCE?_

 

“You his mum now?” Crowley spits, earning another elbow, this one angelic and wedged into his ribs.

 

_DO YOU NOT TRUST ME, DEMON?_

 

“Ngk?” Chokes Crowley. “Wh-what? Why the _fuck_ would I trust you?”

 

“Certitudes,” mumbles Adam, sagely. 

 

“What?!” Blurts Crowley.  

 

 _NOTHING_ , says Death, leaving the demon to flounder and wonder, accusatorily, if there’s some unspoken joke at his expense. Where’s a damn dictionary when he needs one? Bloody useless bookshop; he scowls surreptitiously at Aziraphale, but the angel does not see. 

 

“He explained the rain,” says the angel coolly in Crowley’s snarky stead. “And how you spoke to him when he discovered his mother and friends. A tad suspect, that, wouldn’t you say, dear?”

 

_I DO NOT CONJECTURE, ANGEL._

 

Aziraphale laughs, a derisive huff of air through his nose.

 

“No no, I suppose not. Absolutes only and all that, hm?”

 

Death has no rebuke. It stands in a contemplative silence where even the euphoria of Adam and Dog do not reach.

 

“So then, why don’t you _extrapolate_ those for us,” Aziraphale continues. “Adam has explained what he can, but I should like to pick your, er, skull a bit, if you’ll pardon the expression.”

 

 _I WILL NOT_ , says Death, but neither does It reduce Aziraphale to ash.

 

“Excellent! There. See? Not so difficult to -”

 

“Why did you call me Life?” Adam interrupts apropos of nothing, and all three entities freeze, two having missed this detail entirely, and one rather unprepared to broach it at all. 

 

When no one speaks, Adam stands, Dog planting himself dutifully beside his feet, and cocks his head up at Death.

 

“When you came back, right after I was tellin’em about the rain, you said it was because I was Life.”

 

“ _You catching that capital letter, Angel_?” Crowley hisses in Aziraphale’s ear.

 

Something crucially imperative threatens to reveal itself; the static expectancy of it chitters - _marrow and char_ \- through the air. Just barely, Aziraphale nods.

 

But that’s the problem, isn’t it? Damn finicky thing, language, and people invent so many devious ways to further complicate it. Death isn’t people, so can shout in capitals all It likes, but there’s a distinct _je ne sais quoi_ to the way Adam speaks, the way the word shrugs off his tongue with just enough innocent query to mask the potent demand lurking in the right angle of that “L”. 

 

 _I_ … Death visibly wars with Itself. 

 

Had It hair, Crowley would like to envision It scratching the rotten tangles or tapping an emaciated finger to Its lips the way Aziraphale does when he’s trying to suss out something vexing. He swallows down a snicker as Death tries to save Its hide.

 

 _WELL, I MEAN_ , _YOU_ **_ARE_ ** _LIFE, ADAM._ It says. _IN THE WAY THAT I AM DEATH, AND YOU ARE MY EQUAL OF OPPOSITES. I TOLD YOU OF DEFIANCE? WELL, YOU DEFY ME, AS DID - AS DO YOUR FRIENDS DEFY MINE. YOU ARE THE ANTITHESIS, AND YOU DEFY THIS DYING WORLD._

 

“Oh…” breathes Aziraphale, spoiling the moment of reverence dawning on Adam’s face. “Oh, yes. Yes, of course!

 

“Ah, apologies,” he withers as Death turns with the suggestion of a scowl in Its hood. “Only I think I’m beginning to understand.”

 

_ONLY BEGINNING TO, ANGEL?_

 

“Shut it,” warns Crowely, jabbing a clawed finger at Death before relinquishing the floor to his friend. “As you were, Angel _dear_.”

 

“Serpent,” accuses Aziraphale, fondly. “But, yes, if you wouldn’t mind my jabbering a moment -”

 

Adam chuckles. Death sighs. Crowley drapes himself protectively beside the angel.

 

“It’s as you say,” Aziraphale cordially addresses Death. “Your defeat, the subduing of your fellow Horsemen. That is obvious enough. Adam, you and your friends, your persistence to _exist_ and deny the innate nature of the Horsemen, in that you ground them in reality. Does that make sense?”

 

Adam screws up his face in a great contortion of thought. He rubs his nose furiously.

 

“Kinda?” He says at length.

 

 _FOR WHATEVER REASON, HUMANITY HAS BEEN RENDERED IRRELEVANT, ADAM,_ Death intercedes. _SO HOW CAN I EXIST IF THERE IS NO ONE TO DIE? YOU ARE THE LAST OF LIFE, ADAM. THROUGH YOU I AM ABLE TO TETHER MYSELF._

 

Never one for complex philosophy, Crowley was planning to tune out most of this lecture, but Death once more delivers a staggering revelation, and he falters where he stands. Reaching out, he grasps Aziraphale’s arm for support.

 

“Sorry, one more time?” The demon says. “Humanity’s gone and done _what_ now?”

 

 _I DO NOT KNOW WHY,_ Death replies far more readily than it has thus far offered. _SOMETHING HAS BEEN UPENDED, AND MY COHORTS HAVE BEEN TAKEN AS A RESULT. THERE IS NO NEED FOR THEM WITHOUT HUMANS TO INSPIRE THEIR VIOLENCE. AND THERE IS NO NEED OF THE CALM, EITHER, OF ADAM’S FRIENDS. THEY HAVE BEEN TAKEN, TOO. EVEN THE IMPOSSIBLE NECESSITATES EQUILIBRIUM._

 

It requires a healthy dose of shock, as well, which delivers itself to the moment as neatly as the day has refused to otherwise be. 

 

“And what of Heaven and Hell,” Aziraphale demands, determined not to lose this momentum no matter the devastation of it. “How do they factor in? Why can we not contact our respective bodies?”

 

 _THAT IS NOT MY DOMAIN, ANGEL,_ replies Death. _THE HORSEMEN ARE MERELY PORTENTS. I HAVE NO ANSWERS._

 

“Where.”

 

Adam again, always Adam. Soft and lost amidst these immortals. 

 

“Where did they go,” the boy says. He does not ask. “The Horsemen. My friends. Where are they.”

 

 _OBSCURITY. AN IN BETWEEN_ , explains Death without really doing that at all. _WHERE THOUGHT PRESIDES AND PROVIDES SHAPE TO THOSE WHO CONSTRUCT ITS FOUNDATION._

 

“Then we can get them back!” Adam says, positively radiates hope, a sunbeam in the shadow of Death. “We can go there and rescue all of them!”

 

 _NO_ , Death says _._

 

Watching closely the spectre, Aziraphale places a finger to his lips, thinking. Suss-ing

 

“But -”

 

_IT IS NOT A PLACE WE CAN GO, ADAM. NOT WILLINGLY._

 

“But what if we did?”

 

_THEN WE COULD NOT RETURN._

 

“And whyever not?” Aziraphale asks.

 

_HUMANITY CAN SUSTAIN ITSELF WITHOUT THE OTHERS. WAR, FAMINE, POLLUTION. THEY ARE POSSIBILITIES. BUT OF LIFE AND DEATH? WE ARE FINITE. THE START AND STOP. IF WE ABANDONED HUMANITY, IT WOULD UNRAVEL COMPLETELY._

 

“And what about us? What happens if we go?”

 

Life and Death and Angel alike turn to stare at Crowley. The boy: dazed amazement. The spectre: pensive solemnity. The angel: awed.

 

“Well? Could we?” There’s so little clarity anymore, he’s starved for one, single cohesive answer. “Can we find the Horsemen and the kids?”

 

“And bring about another Apocalypse?” Pales Aziraphale.

 

Crowley shakes his head, but attempts a sardonic half-smile anyway, “Look around you, Angel. We need Head Office for that, and I sure as shit don’t see ‘em.”

 

“But _surely_ -” 

 

 _YES,_ says Death. _YOU CAN._

 

“And can we come back? _Unscathed_?”

 

_IF THAT IS WHAT YOU WANT._

 

“I’m -” Crowley sighs. Then laughs - a helpless sound - kneads the bridge of his nose and works his fingers out to his eyes, pushing his glasses up into his hair. 

 

“You know a lot more than you’re letting on,” he says, narrowing his pupils to faultline slits. “Huh, big guy?” 

 

Death does not answer. It cannot.

 

“Okay,” Crowley throws his hands up in a flutter. “Sure fine. _Whatever_.” 

 

When they settle back down, Aziraphale is there to take them in his own, holding tight again, always so tight.

 

“And this is the only course of action?” The angel asks.

 

This, Death can answer. And It does, with the faultless, unyielding tide of Its absolution. 

 

_YES._

 

Because, well, certitudes and all that, isn’t it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this wasn't like, cool action packed things like the last two, but i needed to flesh out Death's character in tandem with the group dynamic. Next chapter will pick up on more crazy things, hope to see you readers then <3


	5. chiaroscurosity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Surely some revelation is at hand;  
>  Surely the Second Coming is at hand. ___

_[You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kBhlRY5LpZw)_   _see, there’s a game. Because of children and all. Makes it easier. Palatable._

 

_Excuse me:_ **_The_ ** _children._

 

_Specificities_ _, you know, because there’s billions here to mistake otherwise._

 

I’m not! _You are._

 

_Unmistakably young, too young for this, with ageful wraiths of wisdom buried for grave-digger hands. They could be yours. They’re not. You chose that. Stood the ground where it ruptured. The rapture. Enrapt. You see the confluence? The heave and hallow?_

 

_Do you know what brought you? What will deliver you?_

 

_Are you the wait. The cease of it. (i’m not asking) Do you know how much is left? (i am now) I’m asking to know, because I don’t. Because you do. Somewhere in there with the catacomb hands, those mausoleum metacar - wait. No. Sorry, we’ve already been there. I’m so sorry._

 

_There’s a soon somewhere, I promise. In this place, the place where - well - you know. You’re here, aren’t you? (i'm asking)_

 

_You’re all here._

 

_(i promise)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,  
>  Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born? ___
> 
> __The Second Coming, WB Yeats_ _


	6. or: W̘̥ͯ̎ͤh̠̗͖̬̯̮̺e͉̻͂̉͛r͚̎e͕̠̼̝̺͓ the Smile of Death goes to contemplate Itself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Or, alt alt title, author implores his bf to explain Cartesian Dualism and Plato’s Theory of Forms, gets a migraine about it, and instead says “sod it” and exploits as he sees fit centuries of philosophical theory for those good, good fanfic points. Again thank you so much for reading, i cannot describe how much i love hearing back and how much it keeps me motivated <3

“So.”

 

“...So…”

 

There’s a prolonged moment of shifting about, of rolling shoulders and rocking on heels, a ditherous expanse of time, though that’s hardly a word at all. The _moment_ , wrought by a woefully perplexed angel and his equally frustrated demon, makes it one. It’s bringing a lot of impossibilities to light, anyway. What’s another in the fucked up grand scheme.

 

 _SO_ , echoes Death with a lurking smirk. 

 

“So… how does this… _work_ , exactly,” Crowley steeples his fingers in front of his mouth, and, despite having nowhere to rest his elbows -- he’s still stood in the doorway -- he curates a remarkable posture of haughty impatience. 

 

“Yes, I think we need to know a great deal more about this… place,” says Aziraphale, “before we go waltzing in all willy-nilly.”

 

 _FAIR ENOUGH_ , concedes Death and promptly lurches toward them both.

 

“Oi! Watch it!” Jumping aside a little too late, Crowley gags at the greasy caress of Death’s robe against his shoulder, the spectre slick-slipping by not unlike an oil spill down a baby seal’s throat.

 

“And where are _you_ going?” Aziraphale demands.

 

 _SOMETIMES, HUMANS ARE CLEVER_ , Death answers, cryptic as none but the spectre pleases. _THERE HAVE ALREADY BEEN ANSWERS COMPOSED BY THE AGES._

 

Realizing Death is making Its way back down to the bookshop, Aziraphale exchanges a brief, panicked look with Crowley, then bolts after It. 

 

“Ah, surely I would have been aware of some grand prophesy like this?” The angel nervously chatters, taking two-by-two steps behind Death’s seamless descent down the stairs, back into the shop, proper. “I assure you I’ve read every book here thrice over. There’s hardly another Agnus Nutter about the place.”

 

Ignoring Aziraphale, Death sweeps Itself over to the angel’s most precious collection of manuscripts: a veritable rainbow of cream to caramel velum and papyrus locked away in a  similarly-thrice-a-day-cleaned-and-temperature-controlled glass case. A trove to rival a dragon’s horde with scraps of Sappho and three unpublished Shakespeare’s -- to name a few -- Aziraphale guards it nigh religiously. In fact, he’s been scolded on two separate occasions for the sheer blasphemy emanating off of it. He covets each work _terribly_.

 

And now Death beholds it, with commendable reverence, yes, but still Aziraphale must force himself not to blight It with holy fury as It runs the heel of Its hand over the glass. 

 

 _TRY FOR A FOURTH,_ the spectre says, and, unfolding the creak of Its fingers, reveals Aziraphale’s personal copy of Plato’s _Republic_ plucked intangibly from the case so as not to disturb the other parchments. 

 

“I - oh - please _please_ be careful,” Aziraphale winces, dancing from foot to foot as if on hellfire coals, debating snatching up the precious print or sparing the agonizing seconds it will take to don his silk gloves and _then_ snatching it. 

 

Crowley, having slithered down with Adam, saunters up to his friend and, with a click of his claws, makes the decision for him. The parchment fades from Death’s clutch and into the demon’s own, hovering there, just above the skin of his fingertips. He’s hardly a sadist, and masochism appeals even less so with the promise of what Aziraphale would do to him were the copy damaged, so he does not. Damage it, that is. He still enjoys a good tease, though.

 

“What’s this about, then? Ol’ play-dough?” He grins at Aziraphale who appears to be swallowing down an aneurysm. “Decent bloke, but we got him in the end, din’t we. Lotta deep-thinker types down our way, actually. Your lot _really_ don’t like all those big questions.”

 

“Crowley, that is a _signed_ copy, would you _please_ -”

 

“Yeah yeah,” the demon, rolling his eyes, relinquishes the parchment to his angel, and grins at Adam who beholds the display with ever tenacious amusement. 

 

“You should see him when they get his crepes wrong,” he murmurs to the boy.

 

 _WHAT DO YOU MAKE OF IT, THEN?_ Death spoils the levity and grounds them all again in the oppressive severity still skulking about the shop. _HAVE YOU PERUSED THIS THRICE?_

 

“In fact I helped _write_ some of it, thank you very much,” sniffs Aziraphale, letting his nose wander a few steps skyward. 

 

“Did _not_ ,” jeers Crowley. “Come off it, Angel. Really?”

 

“Well,” Aziraphale blushes under his friend’s scrutiny, “perhaps not _exactly_. Only it’s fair I lay claim to some parts - he rather struggled with the analogy of the sun, I must say - but I merely shed a ray or two of divine light on that matter. As it were…”

 

“Consssorting,” sings Crowley and weaves his way into Aziraphale’s precious little personal bubble, resting his chin on the angel’s shoulder.

 

“Go on, then. What’s he got t’say about the four haberdasheries?

 

“Oops, my bad,” he winks at Death.

 

Ignoring the sleight, the spectre turns blankly to Aziraphale, awaiting an answer. 

 

Desperate for any transparency, the angel concedes he might as well be, too, and sighs, “I can’t rightly say.” 

 

He puzzles over the parchment, tediously turning each page so sadly riddled in gossamer creases. He’s done his best to look after it, but nearly three millennia is a lot to ask of even such timeless thoughts.

 

“Mhm… so how much of your _collaboration_ was wining and dining, _dear_ ,” Crowley grins in his friend’s ear.

 

No matter the encroaching end of the world, the demon does always somehow manage to remain staunchly abhorrent. 

 

“Honestly,” Aziraphale huffs, shoving him off.

 

 _FORMS AND SHADOWS,_ says Death, saving Aziraphale from having to compose a more creative insult for his demon. _RING ANY BELLS? THEY REVERBERATE QUITE NICELY IN CAVES, YOU KNOW._

 

“Would you quit messing,” interrupts Adam, “an’ just explain it already.”

 

Heretofore keeping quietly to himself, the boy once more cows Death, and the spectre quickly amends Its attitude. 

 

 _HIS THEORY OF FORMS, ANGEL_ , It reaches over, taps a spindly finger to the parchment. _NOT ENTIRELY ACCURATE, OF COURSE. HUMANITY IS NOT JUST THE SHADOW. IT BOTH CREATES THEM, AND IS CREATED BY THEM. MAKING WHAT MAKES, BACK ONTO ITSELF. A - ERM - OUROBORUS, IF YOU WILL._

 

At that, Death sends a particularly smarmy cloud of self-satisfaction Crowley’s way and says, _YOU SHOULD KNOW THAT ONE, SERPENT._   

 

Refusing to rise to the bait, Crowley simply glares. For good measure, though, he catches the fork of his tongue on the flint wheel of his teeth, spitting a spark of brimstone. The spectre chuckles.

 

"Wait, hol' on, what?" Adam again, and this time he's looking the worst for the intellectual wear, and understandably so; he'll hardly have touched on classics yet, let alone epistemology.

 

"Oh, it's all a bit convoluted, dear," Aziraphale says, but tries anyway to explain. "My friend believed our physical selves, and indeed every other physical  _thing_ , everything you can touch and see and what have you, is merely a shadow of itself, a reflection of its true perfection, and that perfection exists in an entirely different place."

 

"Er..." Adam frowns and scratches the back of his leg. "Guess that makes sense? Maybe?"

 

"Hang on," Crowley interrupts with a flourish of  _you-really-don't-know-how-to-talk-to-children-do-you-Angel_. "Lemme have a go."

 

"Say you've got an apple, kid," he twists his wrist, and a wonky globe of red fruit appears in his palm. "See how shit it is? Lumps and spots. But it's still an apple, yeah?"

 

"Yeah?"

 

"Well, ol' play-dough couldn't be satisfied with  _just an apple_ \- oh who does that remind you of, Angel? - and so he got it in his noggin that there had to be some - oh what is it - like a... template, yeah that's it. So imagine the  _perfect_ apple, and that's where all other apples come from. Now multiply that by every damn thing in the world, everything's got a template, we're all just imperfections of ourselves."

 

With a satisfied huff, Crowley incinerates the apple and wrinkles his nose at Death, "That sound about right?"

 

 _YOU ARE CORRECT,_ the spectre admits, almost too readily. _HOWEVER, THERE IS NO PERFECTION, NO TRUE IDEAL. THERE IS ONLY THAT WHICH IS SUPPOSED ABOUT IT, WHAT PLATO SUPPOSED, HYPOTHESIZED IF YOU WILL. THERE IS, AS YOU SAY, THE FOUNDATION, THE TEMPLATE, BUT UNLIKE PLATO SUGGESTED, THERE IS A TEMPLATE FOR EVERY INDIVIDUAL THING, NOT MERELY A PERFECT TEMPLATE FOR ENTIRETIES ALONE. YOUR APPLE, DEMON, IS IMPERFECT, AND SOMEWHERE ITS IMPERFECT TEMPLATE EXISTS, AND THEY MAKE EACH OTHER INTO INFINITY._

Death pauses, and eyes Its audience

 

_PLEASE INFORM ME IF I HAVE, OH WHAT IS THAT FUNNY LITTLE SAYING... LOST YOU, YES THERE WE ARE._

 

"We're fine," Crowley snits, "like you said, ouroborus. Plato was a self-deprecating git who thought we should all aspire to some stupid ideal of perfection but, oops! Sorry, mate, it doesn't actually exist, and turns out your shitty self is as good as it's gonna get. That about right?"

 

"Not even  _remotely_ close, my dear," condescends Aziraphale.

 

 _YOU DISCREDIT YOUR INTELLIGENCE,_   _DEMON,_  counters Death.  _A COMMENDABLE SUMMATION OF HIS THEORY._

 

Crowley grins - though it's more of a grimace - and the spectre continues.

 

_AND NOW SOMETHING HAS THREATENED EACH AND EVERY ONE OF THESE TEMPLATES, AND THOSE THAT CREATE THEM - EVERY HUMAN AND APPLE AND BLADE OF GRASS - HAVE BEEN CALLED BACK FOR SUPPLEMENT. AS I HAVE SAID, HUMANITY MAKES THE FORMS AND IS MADE BY THEM IN TANDEM, BUT THERE IS NO FUNCTIONAL HUMANITY, NOT PRESENTLY, SO THERE IS NO NEED FOR WAR OR PEACE, FAMINE OR FEAST, POLLUTION OR PURITY. THEY HAVE ALL - HUMANITY AND HORSEMEN ALIKE - DETERIORATED TO THEIR SHADOWS. THAT IS WHERE THEY ARE, WHERE THEY ARE NEEDED. IT IS THE ONLY WAY THEY CAN BE._

 

There’s a certain dynamic to Knowing and Disputing. A tetchy little tug of war. It’s evolved since its beginnings in tar and mud, when Grog hit Mog over the head because he wanted Mog’s stick. As all things do, they changed, deteriorating into the fanciful whim and pomp of discourse and what have you. There’s fame in it, a millennia old pamphlet lauded for its know and Dispute; the language is dead but the ideas yet thrive. So let’s not mince words - Plato certainly never did. He also never Knew. Not like this. He was close - _excruciatingly_ close - but found too much ease in the Dispute. Discourse. _Whatever_.

 

But Death? Death Knows. Not fully, of course. That’s impossible. (It’s not quite in on the irony, the silly bugger, but It’s close enough.) Excruciating, you know? And the one who Knows - that capital again - necessitates the Dispute. This is a world of that. There’s a whole snobby lot of them who think too much and end too early in traffic collisions or too late with the disbelief of a dying god. It’s a perfect balance. Death Knows, and by process of equilibrium - It mentioned that earlier, right? - there must be an answering Dispute. 

 

They say: But it’s not my time! 

 

And Death sighs: Would you please just pay the damn, two pennies? 

 

And the world spins on and doesn’t fall off its filament axis into the abyss. 

 

Immortals present a fault on the fulcrum, not terribly much, but enough to warrant a watchful eye and OSHA on speed dial. They’re better at the Dispute because they Know a little more. One angel in particular prides himself on how much of it he’s accrued and, well, confronted with frankly inane ponderings from a being that is now starting to look more and more like a cheap Halloween gimmick, it’s only fair he puff himself up a bit and Dispute.  

 

“Well.”

 

Fingers anchor in the lapels of a centuries-cherished jacket, just dusting under that godawful, god-is-dead-and-that-bloody-did-her-in tartan tie.

 

“I see why you held out all mysterious and such. That’s…” 

 

“ _Batshit_ fucking insane.”

 

There’s another thing about immortals, about one demon. Similarly particular, him. Because, sure, sometimes a good ole nailing-of-the-ninety-nine-theses is in order. Except, sometimes, they’re scribbled on with crayon and crucified with a rubber hammer that squeaks like a heartbroken clown. Or maybe that’s just Crowley. Wait. No, it’s definitely him.

 

Either way, it’s saved them all (the Knower, the Knowers and Disputers, the Prince) a substantial tangent. Aziraphale never minces - only if it’s pie - but upon his friend’s outburst, he finds his tongue a bit tied up in helpless stammers. And then, because it’s far easier and provides a pretense to gather his ducks-out-of-row thoughts: laughter. 

 

“Ah-hah, _em_ , hm! Sorry so sorry,” he spares a helpless look at Death. “Only he’s right, you know. That is all a bit -”

 

“Batshit,” reiterates Crowley, in case anyone has forgotten. 

 

 _ALBEIT IRONIC,_ says Death, _YOUR DISBELIEF IS IRRELEVANT. THESE TRUTHS PERSIST WHETHER KNOWN OR NOT._

 

Crowley, waving his hands about much like a disgruntled duck taking begrudging flight, paces in a tight circle, stuttering gibberish until he finally settles on, “I-gh-fwhow come this’s the first we’re hearing about this, anyway? Sounds like somethin’ a cult’d think up.”

 

 _IT IS NOT A RELIGION, DEMON,_ says Death, a strange curve ball, but Crowley throws it right back.

 

“Neither am I???” He looks to Aziraphale for support. “Him, maybe. I got kicked out, ya know? But still pretty well known, me. An’ him. And _you_ for that matter, but whatever. My point _iss_ s - is that, if there was some Great Big Purgatory Type Place Thingy there’d be some evidence, yeah?”

 

 _YOU GREATLY OVERESTIMATE YOUR CHARGES. EVEN HE COULD NOT PARSE IT FULLY,_ Death indicates the _Republic_ still clutched, dainty as a daisy, in Aziraphale’s hands. _THERE IS EVIDENCE, BUT BECAUSE IT_ **_IS_ ** _EVERYTHING, INSEPARABLE FROM EVERY OTHER THING,THERE IS NO DISCREPANCY TO DISTINGUISH IT. THE FORMS AND THE FORMED WORK IN SEAMLESS HARMONY. UNTIL NOW, OF COURSE._

 

“Antithesis,” pipes up Adam, but when Crowley turns to look at him, the boy is staring decidedly elsewhere, off into space. 

 

Maybe he’s seeing these Form things. Who bloody knows anymore.

 

“Er, sure, kid. Why not.

 

“Anyway,” he rounds back on Death, but as he prepares another tirade, a hand comes suddenly to rest on his shoulder, steering him backwards.

 

“My dear,” whispers Aziraphale, a chuckle perched on the pet name, “you do realize you’re arguing metaphysics with Death, right?”

 

“Yeah,” sniffs Crowley indignantly, “and I gotta be honest, it’s the only thing that’s making sense today.”

 

“Well clearly we’re getting nowhere,” this Aziraphale says loud enough for all to hear. “I don’t necessarily doubt this, only it’s a lot to wrap the head around. And I’d like to have a sit down and properly flesh this out, but I suspect we don’t have time for that.”

 

_FINALLY CATCHING ON, ARE WE?_

 

“ _Don’t_ ,” warns Aziraphale as Crowley makes to pounce on Death. “Ignore It, dear. It’s fine.”

 

“Is’not,” the demon growls, only just releasing the spring coil tension in his shoulders.

 

“And this is all you can tell us?” The angel continues.

 

 _IT IS ALL I KNOW_. 

 

“Right…” Aziraphale blows out a puff of air. “We haven’t much of a choice then, hm.”

 

“But - but is it even safe?” Crowley throws another fit with his hands, disbelief and a strange dash of admiration in his expression. “And you still haven’t told us how we get there or what we do _when_ we’re there. Is it even a _there_ at all? Is it some other dimension or something? I mean, sorry mate, but we ain’t got a tardis for that.”

 

“You’ll have to excuse my friend,” intercedes Aziraphale. “He reverts to contemporary blathering when he’s upset.”

 

“Angel, that doesn’t even mean anything.”

 

“Who dined with Plato again, _dear_?”

 

“Well good thing I _didn’t_ , 'cuz turns out he was wrong!”

 

 _ONLY CONFUSED_ , sighs Death. _AND NOW THERE IS THE OCCASION FOR CLARITY. YOU CAN WITNESS FOR YOURSELF THE FEVER DREAM. AS FOR TRANSPORT, I ASSURE YOU THERE IS NO M25._

 

“Yeah, kinda figured,” says Crowley bitterly. “What do we do, then: gaze upon Death till the madness sends us spiraling?”

 

 _I -_ Death laughs, Its robes rippling with the effort to convey the grotesquery of Its amusement. _YES, ACTUALLY. ALTHOUGH, SANS THE MADNESS, YOU WILL BE GLAD TO KNOW._

 

Crowley hasn’t a response for that, his mouth hanging open mid-retort. It’s Aziraphale who bridges the cavernous gap in the conversation.

 

“Would you… excuse us? For a moment please? No no, I’d like you to stay,” he motions for Adam as the boy makes to make himself scarce. “Just us three, if you wouldn’t mind.”

 

He stares expectantly at Death, exposing a smattering of extra eyes along his cheekbones for good measure, and the spectre recoils. Adam, stuck in a daze it seems, does not see. Crowley, however, snickers under his breath.

 

 _CERTAINLY_ , Death grits out, and dissolves Itself into a cloister of unsorted books at the far end of the shop, beside the windows where the grey-sick light still struggles to leak through the curtains.

 

Immediately, the mood exhales, and the jagged knife’s edge of Aziraphale’s nerves whets itself on the brief bit of relief.

 

“Goodness, that’s better,” he rubs at his temples, massaging away the fog between them.

 

“Bloody bastard,” grumbles Crowley. “You know It does that on purpose?”

 

“Come again?”

 

“Radiates dread like a - what’re those things, those uh - isotopes! That’s it.”

 

“My dear, what _are_ you on about?”

 

Crowley waves away the comment, “Nevermind. S’just get on with it. Group huddle before we throw ourselves off the mortal coil?”

 

“Something like that,” sighs Aziraphale. “Oh but,” he beckons again for Adam, “you’ve barely said a word, and I know this is terribly much to process but, well… I don’t suppose It explained any of this to you beforehand?”

 

“Yeah,” Crowley cocks his head. “It’s got something of a soft spot for you, kid.”

 

Adam shrugs, “No, nothing,” and wobbles a bit where he stands, eyes still unfocused on some distant sight. 

 

“Are you alright, dear?” Aziraphale asks. 

 

It’s been an up and down adrenaline rush for everyone, but Adam has certainly borne the brunt of it. Humans are so terribly frail without the aid of immortality.

 

“M’fine, but… gonna sit down I think.”

 

He does, immediately drooping to the floor where Dog proceeds to snuffle at every available inch of his face.

 

“Aw c’mon boy, m’alright,” Adam laughs - a good sign, a good sound - but the effort he employs to impede Dog is minimal at best. 

 

“ _He is definitely not_ ,” hisses Crowley in Aziraphale’s ear, making the angel shiver. “And I sure as Heaven don’t trust any of this.”

 

“But what can we do?” Aziraphale looks at him, pleading desperation spoiling his smile lines. “These are our only answers - we’re the only ones left, the four of us.”

 

“We don’t know that.”

 

“Yes, Crowley, we do. Look around you, surely you see it?”

 

“What,” Crowley spits, flicking another spark of brimstone between his lips, “See what? That the bloody world’s falling apart, again? That it’s finally happening even after we just got it back?”

 

His words take on a violence of volume and fervor, his pupils splitting and contracting on an erratic rhythm.

 

“The shop, each other,” he continues, grimacing, grinding his teeth. “ _The world_ , you remember that? Because I do, Angel, and it was _lovely_ , and it was champagne and oysters at the Ritz, and it was all supposed to be _okay_.”

 

With tears shattering the corners of his demon eyes, Crowley abruptly seizes hold of his angel, pulls him close, hugs him like he might scavenge a breath of air for his drowning lungs, for the implacable ache in his chest.

 

“It was supposed to be _our side_.”

 

“I-I know,” stammers Aziraphale, useless and burning now, too, behind the eyes. “ _I know_. My dear, I promise I do, but - but -”

 

“But they can’t let us have anything,” Crowley mutters, his voice shaken, furious. “So we’ll take it back. We’ll bloody _fix_ this, and I swear to _whoever_ I will run Gabriel through with your sword.”

 

“I - ah…” 

 

Goodness it’s been an age since one of Crowley’s mood swings, and although this doesn’t exactly fall within those parameters, it’s close enough to give Aziraphale whiplash. He never knows quite what to say so, stupidly, he settles on, “I don’t - don’t have that anymore, dear.”

 

“S’the thought that counts.”

 

“Ah, yes. Very considerate, thank you.”

 

“Welcome.”

 

They stand there, Crowley slouched in Aziraphale’s embrace, his face buried in the angel’s collar, and, goodness, Aziraphale has neglected to notice just how exhausted he is, how both of them are. Barely two hours have elapsed since the Apocalypse set back into full swing, and already he wants to take Crowley up on one of his century long slumbers. 

 

“T’l be okay,” comes a small voice from the floor, and Aziraphale glances down to see Adam watching wearily through the curls drooping into his eyes. “I won’t let anything happen. Like last time, remember?”

 

Aziraphale tuts fondly, wants to right and hug him, as well, but Crowley is determinedly tangled around him, so instead he says, “Well thank you, my boy, but I should think that’s our responsibility.”

 

Adam shakes his head, his eyes glassed over. Miles away. His pupils blown to fathoms.

 

“Not yet,” he says, breathless as if in awe. “But soon, angel.”

 

And then, his eyes clear, and he blinks - owlish and something else - as if undone from a trance. 

 

“Adam?”

 

The boy scrubs at his face with his hands.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

“Yeah?” In his lap, Dog wriggles for pets, and Adam scratches under his chin. “M’fine. Tired. Nervous, too, I guess.”

 

“We’d have bigger problems if you weren’t,” Crowley offers, finally extricating himself from his angel. “Speaking of…”

 

He catches Aziraphale’s gaze, his heart bruising all over again at the sight of the worry lines creasing his brows.

 

“Guess we have some looking-Death-in-the-eyes to do, eh, Angel?” He jokes anyway, for the angel’s sake.

 

Aziraphale sighs, a burdened sound.

 

“Yes, I suppose so.”

 

He’d like to ask if Crowley heard Adam’s cryptic message, those words that were far too old for him, not by mere definition, but by virtue of their cadence spoken in syllables belonging to ages since turned to dust. Saged and saddened. 

 

But he doesn’t. 

 

Instead, he loops his arm through Crowley’s, offering a hand to Adam as he does. The boy takes it, his grip firm, his palm clammy.

 

“There now,” he says, squeezing Adam’s hand, “everything’s going to be alright.”

 

“I know,” Adam squeezes back, and Aziraphale’s strains his ears, but there’s no hum of the oracle this time, no Pythian wisdom, just a child’s voice, a child’s hope.

 

“Don’t you go blessing this,” Crowley hisses.

 

 _Really_? Scolds Aziraphale’s answering expression. 

 

Because in these of all times, they need as many friends they can get. Death included.

 

-

 

For Its part of things, however, the spectre has made Itself remarkably scarce. Funny, odd. (Just keep making light of it to keep the head on straight for the love of -) And how pervasive the absence of It feels when It’s slunk away. How, now more than ever, It’s a source of certainty. A focal point. 

 

As they, angel and demon and Prince, look around, in their cloistered-away huddle where so little has been solved in their deliberations, with no longer Death to distract them, the bloodless seep of the bookshop’s stilled heart pounds around them. The anemic spines of books in their splinter-hewn shelves. The tacky stick of the air losing its wordsmith luster. Drained, it’s all so drained. And, somewhere, Death has sequestered Itself out of respect. And they (Angel Demon boy) hurry to find It, hurry for how it detracts the eye from welling up at the nothing. What happens when it overspills? Like rain (stopped). Like vomit (sore, empty bodies). Like tea (honey and milk and - ) 

 

Oil, like Its friend (lost), oozing by the door, where another friend (lost, but watched, a departure of theatrics, to make herself Known)...   

 

There, where War fell, Death sits, a silhouette of mourning, contemplating Its loss. 

 

Funny.

 

Odd.

 

What does It know of loss? Everything, of course. The Harbinger, remember?

 

And so, the antithesis. The antichrist. The Prince. The boy, with his Dog, his angel and demon. He does not demur as they approach, letting go of Aziraphale’s hand, smiling wanly at Crowley, leaving them in his golden wake to watch. As he kneels, wraps the small spindle of his arm across Death’s contrite spine.

 

“S’okay,” he murmurs. Like a promise. (remember?)

 

And then, with the wisdom, “We’re ready.”

 

-

 

At the far end of the shop, crumbling between the books, dusted on the floorboards, the juxtaposed chalk of Heaven’s 411 sighs the last latent wisp of its glow, the conduit fizzling and sputtering and rattling gooseflesh up the recoiling curl of Crowley’s back. What they thought was their last resort proves the spectacularity of its uselessness, after all, although Aziraphale still thinks They Up There should have at least considered voicemail. He’d suggested it when the technology rolled around, well, nicked a page from Crowley who pitched the same idea to his people. Neither body took the advice, and now look where they are? The end of the world (again) and Death their only hope. It’s enough to make the head spin, and then, after its found its balance again, pack up a suitcase and beeline down south for some sense. Geese always did have that one in the bag. Ducks, too.

 

“Bloody ducks,” Crowley mutters to himself, again struggling around his disoriented metaphors.

 

“Pardon?” Aziraphale gives him a queer glance.

 

“Nothing, nevermind. Not important.”

 

“Ah well…”

 

At present, he and Aziraphale are sparing themselves a last moment’s preparation, tucked away - somewhat conspiratorial, mostly bewildered - near the angel’s desk while Death and Adam wait listlessly by the door. 

 

“You know, dear, I mean… speaking of -”

 

Crowley returns the skeptical eyebrow, and Aziraphale sighs. 

 

“We never did try Hell,” he says, and Crowley struggles to quell the wince that rises to his upper lip.

 

“Shit…” he chews viciously at the inside of his seditious cheek. “You’re right.”

 

_Should we?_

 

Neither of them ask. They already have the answer lurking a few meager feet away, holding again the hand of Adam Young, still as much a pantomime as it appeared a few short hours ago on the threshold of the shop. It does not wave this time around. This is not an occasion of introductions, anymore.

 

“D’you think -”

 

Aziraphale shakes his head. 

 

“No, I suspect they’re in the same kettle of fish.”

 

“You mean hot water?”

 

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale laughs, “I’m miserable for analogies today, I’m afraid.”

 

“Nah, makes perfect sense.”

 

“Well.”

 

“Well…”

 

There’s no objective to their forestalling this. There’s no need of provisions, not like Adam’s thermos and sandwich materials, and Aziraphale would rather clip his primaries than tear out even a sentence of his books and stuff it in his pocket for it to turn soggy and pulpy. Whatever the strange page it was he found in the boy’s coat, it was wholly incomprehensible, and he’d set it on the kitchen counter, planning to address it after tea but then, well all _that_ went down rather pear shaped. Er, lead balloons and what have you. Thinking on it now, he whims a precocious little miracles upstairs, which smooths the page out to dry for later perusal and explanation, if Adam has any. It’s necessary. Very. To have things to come back for, to set the sights on. Supposing on “later” makes it more tangible through the smog of uncertainty, provides a handhold for trembling fingers.

 

For now, there is assurance in others, an angel and demon taking shameless hold of one another, as they have so enjoyed doing these past three years, as they have relished and basked in the freedom of each other.

 

Hushed, solemn, warm and solid in Crowley’s temperate grip, Aziraphale asks, “Are you ready, my dear?”

 

“Yeah,” the demon lies, and it is known, and it is not acknowledged, because that’s how he accepts things, it’s how he brings his angel to cope. “Let’s get this over with, and hey. Maybe we’ll still make those Saturday reservations, eh?”

 

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathes a kiss to Crowley’s knuckles and smiles, “I do hope so.”

 

-

 

 _YOU WILL RETURN TO YOUR OWN FORMS_ , Death says. 

 

It’s still standing, Adam Its crutch, the foundation. Dog his fearsome guard.

 

They asked. It answers how It can.

 

 _NEITHER DEAD NOR ALIVE_.

 

“Because you lot are staying here, yeah yeah,” Crowley rolls his eyes, and his claws bite anxiously into the back of Aziraphale’s hand. “We got it.”

 

“And when you find them,” Adam says - so sad, but Aziraphale observes him carefully, sussing out the sage - “tell ‘em that - that I miss’em and’ll see ‘em soon, and tell mum and dad not t’worry.”

 

“I’m sure they’ll be thrilled to know you’re in Death’s capable metacarpals.” 

 

The universe guffaws at that, but of more immediate consequences, no one besides the demon sees the humor. Not even a funny bone.

 

(The universe _howls_ ~~with laughter.~~ )

 

“Oh dear,” says Aziraphale, looking suddenly stricken. “I’m afraid we haven’t any proper food about the place. Or a room made up for that matter.”

 

“Bit of a pocket dimension of miracles up there,” Crowley jerks a thumb at the ceiling.

 

 _HE WILL SUBSIST_ , says Death.

 

“Can you ever just…” Crowley sends his hands skyward again. “ _Every bloody word outta your mouth_ , it’s like a damn thesaurus in there! Can’t even manage a contraction? No? Alright, fine.”

 

“Please do just look after yourselves,” Aziraphale interrupts. “I would set something up, only I’m not sure it will keep after we’ve… gone.”

 

Death neither confirms nor denies the suggested query. It hasn’t offered a solid explanation at all for what will become of their respective divine and demonic influences once they’ve crossed over. It says It doesn’t know, but what is the world where you take Death for Its word. Regardless, they have to accept it, and do so with hands tangled and hearts plummeting, the both of them intimately aware that the suffusing dread is their own machination and no longer the more palatable result of the mercurial spectre before them. They can still refuse it. They’ve made a life out of that, already.

 

“But just to reiterate,” Crowley says, and the surmounting suspense screeches to a shrivel, like stale air let loose from an overindulged balloon. 

 

 _YOU WILL NOT DIE_ , Death sighs, exasperated. _YOU ARE IMMORTAL._

 

“Hey, all this talk about life and death and _forms_ and whatever -”

 

_YOUR CAUTION BESEEMS YOU, SERPENT._

 

“Ohh, gonna act smart with me now, too?”

 

“ _Crowley_ ,” snits Aziraphale. “ _Please_ , I really would rather we get this over with sooner than later.”

 

Crowley sulks but bites the angry flick of his tongue, coiling back in an aloof slouch.

 

“S’rry,” he mumbles.

 

“Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale runs the pad of his thumb over the demon’s knuckles. “Now. I think let’s give this a shot.”

 

Death cocks Its head, and the fabric of Its robe rather groans with the effort to accommodate Its uncanny, cranial angle.

 

_YOU HARBOR DOUBTS, ANGEL?_

 

Aziraphale frowns as Crowley bristles beside him, the epithet a hollow snap of sarcasm in the spectre’s utterance. 

 

“I have been led awry in blind devotion, Death,” the angel says candidly. “I prefer the evidence of things, anymore.”

 

 _DOES YOUR FAITH WAVER, THEN_ , Death insists, hedging for something. A dog for Its bone. 

 

Aziraphale sets his jaw tightly, pulls himself up to a stone-set posture, and says, “Not as such. Just in better prospects as it were. Him, for starters,” he gestures to Adam. “And my friend, as well.”

 

_AND MYSELF?_

 

“You don’t bloody give us much option, do you?” Crowley growls, eyes afire behind his glasses.

 

Answers Death, coolly, _I PREFER THE ILLUSION OF IT._

 

The demon sniffs and spits under his breath, “Enigmatic twat,” ferreting out a modicum of calm in the rhythm of Aziraphale’s thumb against his skin, doing his utmost not to tackle the smug, spectral bastard to the floor and discorporate It right where Its friend met her own end. 

 

“In _any_ case,” Aziraphale tries again, “unless you have anything of use to impart, let’s _please_ get this over with.”

 

 _BETTER_ , says Death. _Enigmatically_ , and Crowley hisses.

 

_ADAM, YOU MUST LOOK AWAY NOW._

 

“Oh… okay,” says the boy, and does not and instead breaks rank with the spectre and hurtles over to Their side of this, his arms just big enough to pull the angel and demon both into a fierce embrace. 

 

“ _Thanks_ ,” he mumbles into the wool of Aziraphale’s waistcoat, and when he shuffles back beside Death, his gratitude remains in a smattering of damp tears upon the fabric. 

 

Aziraphale would like to tell him not to worry, that it’s a matter of duty bound obligation, but that’s terribly disingenuous if not entirely a flat out lie, so instead he settles on, “It’s the least we can offer, my dear,” and, well, it’s the most sincere he’s felt all day.

 

Says Death, then, Its tone a step in the right direction of melancholy, _PLEASE, ADAM, YOU CANNOT SEE ME._

 

“I know,” says the boy, but he does not abandon Death’s side again, contenting to sit himself cross legged beside the spectre with Dog in his lap. He buries his face in his hands. 

 

He could be crying. His form is impeccable. But there are others for that.

 

It can’t be helped. It’s so human, after all. And what else is there when faced with such grave uncertainty? Even the Spectre cannot say.

 

It does say, _BE NOT UNDONE_.

 

And they aren’t. 

 

And there are ditherous, multitudinous seconds, between the rasp of bone-nail to robe, amidst the slide of fabric over a skull. An answering embolism of the eye unwanting of what it beholds, Demon and Angel staring through the visage of Death, frozen and stutter like the stopped rain and the echo-careen of it there in the place of Forms, there where they soon will be. There it is. Where the smile of Death sits up from the casket of Its jaw and plasters itself to their pupils, to iris-eclipses for the dilated fear of it. The awe and grotesquery. The anguish of Its grief. For that is all It is in the end. And for an angel, for a demon, for a boy, and, yes, even the dog, too. And for Itself. 

 

And, well, [if](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0hPNc-hxp40) you would like to envisage the result, the _not-on-the-m25-but-bloody-well-close-enough_ , then conceptualize the inversion, like before, when Death went to retrieve Dog, but not that at all, and only suggested as such for the sake of familiarity. Now suppose on the antithesis, the Form of it. The syllabic destructuring of it - of an angel and demon  _there-and-then-not_. Put those letters to palindrome and then desiccate them in War’s honor. Think of scale and feather but - no no, not like that - ah - wait - hang on you’re starting to… remember? What I just said? Like before, but not. It’s _that_. And before that. The confluence. Hm… 

 

Try for Adam, his apple eye. With the pastoral pastels, his unfit aura. See how he peeks between his fingers, the there and not of his friends, the shrill of alarm in Dog, the gravity of Death, infecting an orbit, staying the boy, so he can disobey without consequence. The blink of it, the eviscerit cleave and swallow. The apart, the back-in-to. The consonants of a demon, the suffixed angel. Like before. Just before. A few words up I swear to god I _promise_ … 

 

And it’s there. And It’s there. And they’re there - see, Death? Sometimes you need the apostrophe, for the ~~clarity~~  comfort in it. Silly bugger…

 

And, they won’t die, not against the word. Of Death. Of It. Of - what was that? - right, yes. Certitudes. 

 

And. 

 

Well. 

 

They won’t. Death cannot lie.

 

 ~~promise~~  

 

They just didn’t ask the right question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should also address the shift in prose and the occasional Non-Word, this is both a thematic element of the narrative, itself, and also Author Suddenly Had A Hankering For Purple, so well... there we go. Hope it's not too arduous, I quite like slipping into obscure meta-ponderings sometimes. Also there might be a few more “double-updates” as a result. I didnt want to post both 5 and 6 together, I wanted 5 to kind of sit on its okay and then pick back up with 6 (and the mirrored motifs in that). Like.. listen... I gotta do Something with my English degree, and convoluting gd _fanfic _is a good outlet.__
> 
>  
> 
> __  
> _In any case, I’d love to know any thoughts/opinions on this. Did the wall break between writer and reader jar too much? Was it an organic shift? Does it work????? Ahhh?????? I’ll cry for comments <3_  
> 


	7. Death walks into a bookshop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit: temper tantrum over, life's just overwhelming atm and i was honestly sacrificing too much of my time for too little in return instead of addressing real life issues
> 
> i want to finish this
> 
> by god i fucking do, its just gonna take forever, and im not going to do it chapter by chapter
> 
> dunno when, dunno how, but im gonna gd finish something for once. if ur reading this note for the first time, author had a pity party, thats it, this will update, and it will update in full, cant give you a time frame bc i have way more important shit to sort out in my life, but... yeah
> 
> yeah

Here’s a joke: 

 

Death walks into a bookshop. It is holding the hand of a boy. There is an angel and a demon in the bookshop, as well. They are friends. They are also friends. And so, if they are not enemies, and they are not enemies, either, then who’s flying the plane? Haha.

̸̢̡̛͔̖̪̥͎͕̰̠̘̝̦̺̪͕̬͕̠̜̳̫̣̖̣̎̉͆ͭ̃ͪ̀̈̓͛̽̔̔̆̋̒͂ͫ͋͢ ̧̹̩̩͙̻̖̳͉̠̍̏ͫͥͦͮͤ̽̏ͫͤ͝ ̴̱͙̻͓̼̗̪͔̙̮̜̊̏͛̍́͘͠

 

̄̽ͬ͊ͧ̐̓̂ͫ̍̑̑ͨͤ̄͊ͩͮ̏҉̸͔̭̥͖͉̝̳͎̹̣̤͠ͅ ̸̵͗̽̎ͫͧ͋ͮ̃̑ͪͬ̄̍̍҉̢̩̻̥̞͚̩̖̦̘̻̜̠͝ ̎ͮ͗̿̑͑̏͂̇̇̈ͨ̊̾ͯ҉͟͏̴͕͙͙̠̰̫̩͈͖͖̮̙̦̦̺̬̫ ̴̷̭̩̯̖͇̘̮̱̋ͨ̈́̃̒̒ͣ̚ ̴͍̲̺̰̹͖̠͕̙̦̭ͨ͊̇ͫͯ̉̋̈̒ͮ̈́͋̔̏͢ ̯̦̲̤͙͔͉̟̘̘̘̘̊̎̍͑͊̔͐ͭͣ̏̅͗͆̈́ ̨͍̬͚̯͍̱̠̝͍̭̺̬̲̭̰̯̒̽̿͂ͥͮͮͯ͌̾͜͠ͅ ̢͙̪̭̞̺͈̮̮͕̔́̎͗̀ͯ͜͠͠ ̸̭͍̣̲̤̮̪̞̠͈͉̟͎͐̒̌ͥͫ͐̈̃̆̆̈́̇̈̒ͅ ̙̲̙̬͉̩̼͍̣̳ͤ̂̾ͯ͗̎͋̾͗̾̃̍̈́̔̓ͬͨͫ̑͜͝ͅ ͮ̾̆͛͆̄͂ͫ̎͟҉͇̟͔̥͇̣̺̦̥̪͢͢ ̽̋̽̀̈ͪ̚҉̼̺͎͕̳̠̫̳̪ ̷̛̲̭̩͈̼̹̰̻͖̻͓̍ͪ̋̐̀ͭͥͩ̽͌͋̿̿ ̄̔͂̓́̔ͭ̿̃̚͡͝҉̸̪̗̮͉̱̙̘̙̻͔̦͚̝̳ ̛̛̙͖͇̹̬̤͇͍̘͖͙̪̣͔͕̘͍̅̒̽ͤͤ̆͋͆ͩͥ̄̈ͦ̚͘͞ ̒̎ͣ̊ͮͭͫ̌͛̽ͭͮ̚͡͏̴҉͏̣͚̥̻͕̺̮̱͚͇̮̹̳͉̭͔ͅͅ ̫̥͎͓̦̘̳̤̱̮̻̰̲̅ͣ̇̏̈̄ͦ͛ͣ̆ͦ̎̉̀̓̏ ̛͓͇̲̖ͮ̇͌ͧͭͭͬͮ̂͊̄̏̑̒̊͡͝͡

̄̽ͬ͊ͧ̐̓̂ͫ̍̑̑ͨͤ̄͊ͩͮ̏҉̸͔̭̥͖͉̝̳͎̹̣̤͠ͅ ̸̵͗̽̎ͫͧ͋ͮ̃̑ͪͬ̄̍̍҉̢̩̻̥̞͚̩̖̦̘̻̜̠͝ ̎ͮ͗̿̑͑̏͂̇̇̈ͨ̊̾ͯ҉͟͏̴͕͙͙̠̰̫̩͈͖͖̮̙̦̦̺̬̫ ̴̷̭̩̯̖͇̘̮̱̋ͨ̈́̃̒̒ͣ̚ ̴͍̲̺̰̹͖̠͕̙̦̭ͨ͊̇ͫͯ̉̋̈̒ͮ̈́͋̔̏͢ ̯̦̲̤͙͔͉̟̘̘̘̘̊̎̍͑͊̔͐ͭͣ̏̅͗͆̈́ ̨͍̬͚̯͍̱̠̝͍̭̺̬̲̭̰̯̒̽̿͂ͥͮͮͯ͌̾͜͠ͅ ̢͙̪̭̞̺͈̮̮͕̔́̎͗̀ͯ͜͠͠ ̸̭͍̣̲̤̮̪̞̠͈͉̟͎͐̒̌ͥͫ͐̈̃̆̆̈́̇̈̒ͅ ̙̲̙̬͉̩̼͍̣̳ͤ̂̾ͯ͗̎͋̾͗̾̃̍̈́̔̓ͬͨͫ̑͜͝ͅ ͮ̾̆͛͆̄͂ͫ̎͟҉͇̟͔̥͇̣̺̦̥̪͢͢ ̽̋̽̀̈ͪ̚҉̼̺͎͕̳̠̫̳̪ ̷̛̲̭̩͈̼̹̰̻͖̻͓̍ͪ̋̐̀ͭͥͩ̽͌͋̿̿ ̄̔͂̓́̔ͭ̿̃̚͡͝҉̸̪̗̮͉̱̙̘̙̻͔̦͚̝̳ ̛̛̙͖͇̹̬̤͇͍̘͖͙̪̣͔͕̘͍̅̒̽ͤͤ̆͋͆ͩͥ̄̈ͦ̚͘͞ ̒̎ͣ̊ͮͭͫ̌͛̽ͭͮ̚͡͏̴҉͏̣͚̥̻͕̺̮̱͚͇̮̹̳͉̭͔ͅͅ ̫̥͎͓̦̘̳̤̱̮̻̰̲̅ͣ̇̏̈̄ͦ͛ͣ̆ͦ̎̉̀̓̏ ̛͓͇̲̖ͮ̇͌ͧͭͭͬͮ̂͊̄̏̑̒̊͡͝͡ ͮ̾̆͛͆̄͂ͫ̎͟҉͇̟͔̥͇̣̺̦̥̪͢͢ ̽̋̽̀̈ͪ̚҉̼̺͎͕̳̠̫̳̪ ̷̛̲̭̩͈̼̹̰̻͖̻͓̍ͪ̋̐̀ͭͥͩ̽͌͋̿̿ ̄̔͂̓́̔ͭ̿̃̚͡͝҉̸̪̗̮͉̱̙̘̙̻͔̦͚̝̳ ̛̛̙͖͇̹̬̤͇͍̘͖͙̪̣͔͕̘͍̅̒̽ͤͤ̆͋͆ͩͥ̄̈ͦ̚͘͞ ̒̎ͣ̊ͮͭͫ̌͛̽ͭͮ̚͡͏̴҉͏̣͚̥̻͕̺̮̱͚͇̮̹̳͉̭͔ͅͅ ̫̥͎͓̦̘̳̤̱̮̻̰̲̅ͣ̇̏̈̄ͦ͛ͣ̆ͦ̎̉̀̓̏ ̸̢̡̛͔̖̪̥͎͕̰̠̘̝̦̺̪͕̬͕̠̜̳̫̣̖̣̎̉͆ͭ̃ͪ̀̈̓͛̽̔̔̆̋̒͂ͫ͋͢ ̧̹̩̩͙̻̖̳͉̠̍̏ͫͥͦͮͤ̽̏ͫͤ͝ ̴̱͙̻͓̼̗̪͔̙̮̜̊̏͛̍́͘͠

 

̢̡̦̺̪͕̬͕̠̜̳̫̣̖̣̔̔̆̋̒͂ͫ͋ ̧̹̩̩͙̻̖̳͉̠̍̏ͫͥͦͮͤ̽̏ͫͤ͝ ̴̱͙̻͓̼̗̪͔̙̮̜̊̏͛̍́͘͠ ̢̨ͤ͗̄ͪͨͦͮ́ͪ̎̾ͧ̒̂̓̏͏̛̙͚̥̝̫̪̫̠̬̰̱̫̫̣͝ͅͅͅ ̊̑̓̆ͣͮ͋̎̇͊ͧ̈͊̓̚҉̷̧͕͙̖͕͇͓̱̮̭͈̣̗̻͔͜ͅ ̦͕̞̞͔̖̭̖̹̥͚͉͍̼̱̮ͣͥ̈́̏́̔̕ͅ ̶̛͍̩̫̩͓͈̻͍̮̙̪̱̺͙ͩ̍̔ͮ͐ͭͅ ̵̸̨̪̗̣̗͈̞͉͖͉̰̥̐͌̐̌̕͝ͅ ͍̭̠̘̰̞̭͙̤̆̽̂̿̏̇̂͢ͅ ̸̨ͦ̈́̈́ͦ̇̾ͫ̄ͤ̇̑ͥ̚͜҉̶̻̫̱̳͇̤͙̹̰̳̥̘͕͙ ̡ͥͦ͌̇̄ͮͯ͌̉̔͞͞͏̫͖͔̤̪̪̖̜̯̦ ̵̸̶̖̺̤͉̱̼͔̯̱̮͓͕̙̳̹̹͖̹͉͋͆͋ͣ͐̂̌̉͛͟ ̸̱̝͇̲͖͔̤̮̜̞̹͚̄͋ͨ̔ͧ̑ͯ͛ͬ̂̃ͮ̾̌̍́̓̍͆͡͠ ̄̽ͬ͊ͧ̐̓̂ͫ̍̑̑ͨͤ̄͊ͩͮ̏҉̸͔̭̥͖͉̝̳͎̹̣̤͠ͅ ̸̵͗̽̎ͫͧ͋ͮ̃̑ͪͬ̄̍̍҉̢̩̻̥̞͚̩̖̦̘̻̜̠͝ ̎ͮ͗̿̑͑̏͂̇̇̈ͨ̊̾ͯ҉͟͏̴͕͙͙̠̰̫̩͈͖͖̮̙̦̦̺̬̫ ̴̷̭̩̯̖͇̘̮̱̋ͨ̈́̃̒̒ͣ̚ ̴͍̲̺̰̹͖̠͕̙̦̭ͨ͊̇ͫͯ̉̋̈̒ͮ̈́͋̔̏͢ ̯̦̲̤͙͔͉̟̘̘̘̘̊̎̍͑͊̔͐ͭͣ̏̅͗͆̈́ ̨͍̬͚̯͍̱̠̝͍̭̺̬̲̭̰̯̒̽̿͂ͥͮͮͯ͌̾͜͠ͅ ̢͙̪̭̞̺͈̮̮͕̔́̎͗̀ͯ͜͠͠ ̸̭͍̣̲̤̮̪̞̠͈͉̟͎͐̒̌ͥͫ͐̈̃̆̆̈́̇̈̒ͅ ̙̲̙̬͉̩̼͍̣̳ͤ̂̾ͯ͗̎͋̾͗̾̃̍̈́̔̓ͬͨͫ̑͜͝ͅ ͮ̾̆͛͆̄͂ͫ̎͟҉͇̟͔̥͇̣̺̦̥̪͢͢ ̽̋̽̀̈ͪ̚҉̼̺͎͕̳̠̫̳̪ ̷̛̲̭̩͈̼̹̰̻͖̻͓̍ͪ̋̐̀ͭͥͩ̽͌͋̿̿ ̄̔͂̓́̔ͭ̿̃̚͡͝҉̸̪̗̮͉̱̙̘̙̻͔̦͚̝̳ ̛̛̙͖͇̹̬̤͇͍̘͖͙̪̣͔͕̘͍̅̒̽ͤͤ̆͋͆ͩͥ̄̈ͦ̚͘͞ ̢̡̦̺̪͕̬͕̠̜̳̫̣̖̣̔̔̆̋̒͂ͫ͋ ̧̹̩̩͙̻̖̳͉̠̍̏ͫͥͦͮͤ̽̏ͫͤ͝ ̴̱͙̻͓̼̗̪͔̙̮̜̊̏͛̍́͘͠ ̢̨ͤ͗̄ͪͨͦͮ́ͪ̎̾ͧ̒̂̓̏͏̛̙͚̥̝̫̪̫̠̬̰̱̫̫̣͝ͅͅͅ ̊̑̓̆ͣͮ͋̎̇͊ͧ̈͊̓̚҉̷̧͕͙̖͕͇͓̱̮̭͈̣̗̻͔͜ͅ ̦͕̞̞͔̖̭̖̹̥͚͉͍̼̱̮ͣͥ̈́̏́̔̕ͅ ̶̛͍̩̫̩͓͈̻͍̮̙̪̱̺͙ͩ̍̔ͮ͐ͭͅ ̵̸̨̪̗̣̗͈̞͉͖͉̰̥̐͌̐̌̕͝ͅ ͍̭̠̘̰̞̭͙̤̆̽̂̿̏̇̂͢ͅ ̸̨ͦ̈́̈́ͦ̇̾ͫ̄ͤ̇̑ͥ̚͜҉̶̻̫̱̳͇̤͙̹̰̳̥̘͕͙ ̡ͥͦ͌̇̄ͮͯ͌̉̔͞͞͏̫͖͔̤̪̪̖̜̯̦ ̵̸̶̖̺̤͉̱̼͔̯̱̮͓͕̙̳̹̹͖̹͉͋͆͋ͣ͐̂̌̉͛͟ ̸̱̝͇̲͖͔̤̮̜̞̹͚̄͋ͨ̔ͧ̑ͯ͛ͬ̂̃ͮ̾̌̍́̓̍͆͡͠ ̄̽ͬ͊ͧ̐̓̂ͫ̍̑̑ͨͤ̄͊ͩͮ̏҉̸͔̭̥͖͉̝̳͎̹̣̤͠ͅ ̸̵͗̽̎ͫͧ͋ͮ̃̑ͪͬ̄̍̍҉̢̩̻̥̞͚̩̖̦̘̻̜̠͝ ̎ͮ͗̿̑͑̏͂̇̇̈ͨ̊̾ͯ҉͟͏̴͕͙͙̠̰̫̩͈͖͖̮̙̦̦̺̬̫ ̴̷̭̩̯̖͇̘̮̱̋ͨ̈́̃̒̒ͣ̚ ̴͍̲̺̰̹͖̠͕̙̦̭ͨ͊̇ͫͯ̉̋̈̒ͮ̈́͋̔̏͢ ̯̦̲̤͙͔͉̟̘̘̘̘̊̎̍͑͊̔͐ͭͣ̏̅͗͆̈́ ̨͍̬͚̯͍̱̠̝͍̭̺̬̲̭̰̯̒̽̿͂ͥͮͮͯ͌̾͜͠ͅ ̢͙̪̭̞̺͈̮̮͕̔́̎͗̀ͯ͜͠͠ ̸̭͍̣̲̤̮̪̞̠͈͉̟͎͐̒̌ͥͫ͐̈̃̆̆̈́̇̈̒ͅ ̙̲̙̬͉̩̼͍̣̳ͤ̂̾ͯ͗̎͋̾͗̾̃̍̈́̔̓ͬͨͫ̑͜͝ͅ ͮ̾̆͛͆̄͂ͫ̎͟҉͇̟͔̥͇̣̺̦̥̪͢͢ ̽̋̽̀̈ͪ̚҉̼̺͎͕̳̠̫̳̪ ̷̛̲̭̩͈̼̹̰̻͖̻͓̍ͪ̋̐̀ͭͥͩ̽͌͋̿̿ ̄̔͂̓́̔ͭ̿̃̚͡͝҉̸̪̗̮͉̱̙̘̙̻͔̦͚̝̳ ̛̛̙͖͇̹̬̤͇͍̘͖͙̪̣͔͕̘͍̅̒̽ͤͤ̆͋͆ͩͥ̄̈ͦ̚͘͞ ̒̎ͣ̊ͮͭͫ̌͛̽ͭͮ̚͡͏̴҉͏̣͚̥̻͕̺̮̱͚͇̮̹̳͉̭͔ͅͅ ̫̥͎͓̦̘̳̤̱̮̻̰̲̅ͣ̇̏̈̄ͦ͛ͣ̆ͦ̎̉̀̓̏ ̛͓͇̲̖ͮ̇͌ͧͭͭͬͮ̂͊̄̏̑̒̊͡͝͡ ̷̗͔͓̘̫͇͍͈̩̖̲̝̭̳̒͌͗ͤͤͥ͐ͥ͜͝͞͠ ͌ͧ̍̔̊̆͡҉͈̹͓̰̙̫̹͎͓̲͙̳̹̣̰ͅ ̻͓̦̠̻̯͈̮̻̤͈̣̭̯ͬ̉̉̚͡͡ͅͅ ̨̢̄̉͆ͮ̊͆̆̅̿͋̑͋̃̽ͫͧ̇͗͜͏͕͔͉͍ ̶͈̲̯̪̘͍̝̫̝̖͖̖͉̯͎͕̞̃̈ͥ̍͘͢ ͙̮̖͕̱̗́͊̀̋̓̈̓̍̉̆͛̐͊ͮͪ͜ ̸͇͖̺̖̲̤͎̳̰͈̺̖̊́̉͆ͧͦͭ͞ ̍̐ͥ͂̉͑ͥͨ͜͢҉̵͎̜̹͎͕̤̰̗͈̘͈ ̪̦̜͍͖̖͇̞̞͛̐ͥͥͥ̈͐̄̇̆ͧ̈̆ͨ̌͞͞ͅ ̴͖̭̲̺͖͚̹̲͚̭̪̼̥̤̗͔̤̌ͩ͛̈́ͩ̇ͫ͐ͬ͗ͧ̕͜͞ ̛͕̭̯̦͎̗̜̰̺̠̼̱̟̿ͫ͑ͬ̕ ͉͓̱̠̟̥͉̌̐ͣͤ͆̑̇͝ ̢̐́̅̈ͪ͆͗͘҉̹̲̹͉̯̥̱̣̻̯̱̜̖̹̤͖̦̤ ̸̷̷̨̦̻͕͙̮̽̈ͦͦͧͩ́ͣ̌̿͐ͬͦ̽͠ͅ ̩̝͎̺̭͖̪͎̙̻̗̳̜̠̞̳͑͐̅̿̑ͭͬ̿̔ͮͤͨ͒̔̚͞ͅͅ ̡̺͕̫̲̜͎͔̭̯̜̞͚͈̫́̆̃͊͛ͬ́ͭ͑͋̒͑͞ ̨̙̳̦͉͇͎̗͚̞̳͚̟̺͉̞͔ͯ̓͛ͯ̓̄̽ͭͨ̌ͫ̚͘͘͢ ̸̣̪̪̲̙͎̭͎̗̭̼̱͈̹̠̌̔ͥ͂͋͘ ̨̀ͩͥͥͦͧ́̍̋̎͊̍ͫͭ͂̃̈̋͏̜̙̦̲̗̥̬̺̘̹̞̭͓̦̙ ̵̧̥̳̟͇̪͈̟̈͋͛̆ͧ͆͋̈ͪ͡͠ ̄̿ͪ͐͒ͤ̓͋̍ͭ̐̄ͦ̀̐̈́̓͛ͩ͏̧͎̦̠̻̻͕̤͍̟͉͉̩ ̳̹͓̞̏̏͛͛̑̉̂̉̽ͨͣͮ̋̏̈́̃̒͜͟ ̸̛͔̖̪̥͎͕̰̠̘̝̎̉͆ͭ̃ͪ̀̈̓͛̽͢ ̶̨̣̹̤̘̗̳ͥ̌͂͗̽͌̂̊͒ͫ ̱̞̞̰̲̝̗͓̞͇͙͕͚̪̩̩̻̅̂͒̐̑̈́̉̊̚͟ͅ ̶̵̶ͮͭ̍̈ͨͥ͐̅ͥͩ͂͛́̓҉̙̦͖̬ ̵̧̻͈̻̳̜͑̃́̂̓́͆͂̈͒̀̋ͦ͂ͭ͑̂͛ ̖̗̻̝̿ͥͮͨ͑́́͗͌ͫ͘͡ ̴̖͔̯̹̤͉̭͈̙͈͎̠͉̳͍̯̀̾ͧͭ͊͌̄ͦ́̈́̎ͨ̇̾͑͛ͦ͠ ̧͊̋̏̐͂͛ͭ̀̾ͦ͋̄̓͋͒̚҉͎̯̫͉͓͕̬͉̻̹̙̥̠̭͞ ̵̈́̊̉̏͗̿̅̋̑ͭ͗̌̅̉ͫ̽̚҉̛͈͚̪͔̭̳̰̗̜͓ ̷̢̈͂̅͐̓̊ͧ͋̆̍ͧ̿ͩ̂͘͏̞͉̳̩̲̫̭̣̤͈̳ ̛̜̩͉̣̺̼̘͈͖͌ͤ͂ͧ̑̾͘͟͡ ̸̧̣̰̭̘̱̗͎̞̱͑ͤͣ͒̉̀̾̍̓ͤ̑͐̊̄̕͟ ̵̶̩̜̱̬̭̳͚͈̬̦̦͉̄̅̎̔͋͂̃̉̊͗̏̇̚̚͝ ̗͖͓̩̲̳͖̝̜̞͑͂ͧ̆͆̏ͬͣͮ͑͒̌ͩͫ͌̏͡ ̸͓̦͙̰̙̬̱͕͈̠͎̞̅͋͛̒͡͞͠ ̵̐̀̔ͩ͒̿̈́̌ͭ͋ͦͣ̔͋̾͌͒͟͏̗̞͔̳̟͇̗̪͉͍͓͔̼̝̹ ̵̟̹̺͙̱̫͎̱̦̹͇̪̱͕̄̇̒͌ͨ͐̽̂̐̌̂͗̊̃͠ ̷̞͎̥̩̩̰̺͓̥ͨ͑̆̐̌̋̄̽̓͒͗ͭ̎͢͢ ̸̶͉̦̟̬͈̬̼̳̫̲̗̜͖̘̞̮̭̞̗ͯ̈̿̆̓͐̉ͪ̓̌ ̵̦̥͕̗̪͍̭̘̫̼̥̤̗̑͗̄ͯ̋̆̕͜͝ ̨͌͑̀̍̉͊̒͌ͬ͗ͥ͘҉̛͈͚̞̙̱͚͖̻̤̩͈͇̮ͅͅ ̵̧̥͙̫̦͙̗̯̣̰͙͉̜̝̣͖͈̑͗ͯͣ̆̓ͤ̓́̓ ̶̧̘̜̩͉̭̫͙̉̓̈ͨ͑̏̔̾̾͊̾ ͫ͑̓͂ͩ̊͒ͬ̿̇ͭ̒̀̅̏ͭ͂҉̷̨͓̟͖̤̞͙̻͔̖ͅ ̧̛̭̱̺͎̙̅̅̔̒̒̈́̂ͯ̋̾̇̎ͪ̎ͫ̂̄̄ ̶ͫͯ̈ͦ̔̈̔̉̅ͨͧͯ̈͒̉̉̎͒҉̸̷͉̭̘̘̘̙̗͈̬͇̼͙̥̪͖̤͉͕͢ͅ ̷̴̡̭̹̜̥̠̮̪ͧ̂ͦ͟ ̲̖̰̦̫̹̖̰̟̰͕͙̎̐ͮ̆͌̑͂̃ͩ̂͛̇̚͢͡ ̨̛̘̳̣̱̫̗͙̲̦̪̘̠͚͚̩̣̤̰̍͌̿̃̌͒̏͐ͮ̔̕ͅ ̨͎͕̣̹̝̬͓̳͚̜̝̊͆̊̒̂̏̚̚͢ ̢ͯͤ͛͗̒͑͠͏͖̥͙̠̞ ̶͈͚͍̫̤̭̳̘͚̭̼̲̘̹͒ͪ͛̐ͣ͗̄ͥ͝ ̾͗́͆ͦ̐͐̓̊̉̐̂̇ͯ̉̎̈̐̀͡҉̵͓̦̫͚̼͟͠ ̴̢̞̩̞̼̬͈̘̝ͧ̌ͪ̄͌ͣͧͤ̎̌͌̓͊̋ͪ͛̏̐̾ ̉̑̒̾̈̆ͨ̓̾̾ͪ̍͗ͨ͘҉̳̬̲͉̪̼͕͇̣̳̞ ̡̩͙̞͙͓̥̹̪̲̳̫̺̰̝̤̝̤̣̎̈̈́ͩͧͭͦ͑ͯͧ͑̎̿̚̕ ̨̧̡̛͎̝̦̥̺̞̬̯̖̟͎̲̻̠͉͈͍̮͑͑͊̑̋ͧͨ̐̽̽̉ͪ͆͒ͭ͋̌͗͢ͅ ̶̴͎͇̹̳̰̫̙͍̼͕̣͉̠͖̝̌ͫ̃ͨͬ̓ͩ͆̓ͧ̓ͥ͟͞ͅ ̷̢͎̟̭͉͙̮̣͈̰͉̫̳̩̙͇͋ͫ̓ͩ̌̾ͬ̋̐̂ͣ͋͟ͅ ̢̛̞̪̰͓̫͙͖̩̲̮̩̣͉̞̩̘̉ͧ̒̈́͆ͥͦ̌͛ͩ̆͐̽̿ͯͭ̎̚ ͍̩͉̹͕̫̗̲̮̮͍̲͉͍̼̠̻͗̂͒ͤͣͣͨ͝͝ͅͅ ̔͒͑̚̕͏͙͈̝͚̯̼͓͇͙͡ ̴̢̩̜͕̱̮̬͎̝̫̯͓͙ͭ͐ͫ̍͂͌͂ͤ̉̄̂͗́͒̍̈́͐̇̚͘͠ ̔͐̽̃͂͛̈́̈͛̓͛̂̆̊̀͊̚͡͏̡̯͙̗͇͙͙͓̖͙̥̞̥̜̘̜̥̥ ̰̫̳̫̫̙̬̙̥̥̺̼̩͕̎ͧ̀͒ͧͯ͒̍̇͊̆ͮͩͮ͑̿̊̐ͅ ̸̤̤̰̼̰̬̞̖̠̮̎͑͋̎̂ͅͅ ̵̝͔͖ͤ͑̆̃̈ͬͥͮ͞͞ ̶̞̫̯̦̣͖͓͔̜̣̜ͦͬ̔͗ͤ͢ ̷̳̦̦̲̱̗̜̯͙̖̙̃̒̈̾̈́ͩͮ̒ͬ͛̆̓ͧͦ͞ͅ ̷̣̙̱͉̜̜̀ͨ̑̽̿ͪ͋̈̕ͅ ̈́͂͐̑ͬͫ̊́̾ͯͦ̑ͩ͗͏̡̯͈̝͖̮̞̘͉̹̼̫͎̼̕ ̢͎̲̻͎̻̰͓͓͉̮̥̣͎̰̙̠̪̭̊ͮ͌͟ͅ ̸̜̳̩̤̞̜͉̼͚̆̏̅̽͗̏̀͛̿̊̈́ͦ̊͋̔̈͂͂ͦ̕͝ ̬̱̦̮̰͇ͤ̽ͯͯ̔ͧ͌ͧ̃ͤ͟͜͡ ̷͎͉͎̺͓̪͚͇̖̦̞̬̯̙̭̖͗ͭ̾̈́́̈́̏̈́̑̈́ͦ̋̄ͩ͟ ̳̟̼̯̠̜͉͇̜̙͔̰͎͉̜̗͎ͧͦ̀ͣͫ͆ͪ̿̌̌͋̊͘͢͞͡͡ ̴̦̼̪͉̣̜͍̂͗͊̕͢͞ ̧̫͓͈̼͕͉̘͇̭̖̜͇͕͇̺ͣͤͨ̍̚̚̕̕͠ͅͅ ̷̦̮̘̲̺̼͚̻̱̫̘̱̟̼̝͚͈͗ͮ̈ͪͧ͆ͪ̈͆̎̊ͣ̾͠ ͬͭ̐ͤ̄͂ͫ̾̓̆ͤͮͮͫ҉̸̥̲̳̰̱͇̜̯͕̘̳͍ ̴̧̦͎̤͙̣ͮ͐̇͂̒ͣ͒̎ͯͭ̉̍͂͛̃̚͝ ̸̧ͩ̉ͩ̀̽͊̐̓̅̊͂̽̍ͥͪ̆̐̾͘҉͙͇͓̯̻̟̝̙͖̠̣̗̱̜͈̝ͅ ̴̶̟̜̳̝̰̏ͯ̈́̔͌̏ͤ̍̎̕͝ ͨ̿̀ͭ̊̿̌̅̾̏͛ͥ͒ͦ͏̛̤̺̪ ̨͈͇͖̫̭̘̩̳͎̮̝͆ͦ̂ͨ͛̅̈́̉͆̀ͦ́̓́̒́̿ͧ̕͝  ̸̢̡̛͔̖̪̥͎͕̰̠̘̝̦̺̪͕̬͕̠̜̳̫̣̖̣̎̉͆ͭ̃ͪ̀̈̓͛̽̔̔̆̋̒͂ͫ͋͢ ̧̹̩̩͙̻̖̳͉̠̍̏ͫͥͦͮͤ̽̏ͫͤ͝ ̴̱͙̻͓̼̗̪͔̙̮̜̊̏͛̍́̐̅̅̈́͊͘͠҉̴̮̙̖͈̱͈ ̂͊̋͛̅͛̓҉҉͚̭̩̦̗͍͇̯̟͉̞̳̭͟͝ͅ ̰̻̯̫͔͇̺̞̝͚̝̞̜̮̙͊̈́̍̓̑̇̿ͧ̍ͮͩ̀̊͘͟ ͬ͂͛͛ͥ̃͊ͣͩͣ́̈͘͏̺͕͍͓͈͚̠̖̩̺̥̳͉͈͟ ̴̼̤͚̰͚͙͕̰͉̘̳̭̫̯͔͕̞͕̣ͮ͐̇͑̅̈́̓̒̀ͧ͆̚͡ ̸̸̹͖̯̮̳̱̘͎̟ͮ̓ͦͦ ̨̘̯̳͈͉͔̮̰̘ͩ͆͂̒͌̀̏ͦͧ̂̎̾̈̉̓̋͆ͧͤ ̷̪̩̩̩̖ͦͨ̋͐͊̕ ̨̢͔̠̼͍̻̻̜̖̬̙͈͙͚̙̲̟̲̪͍̎ͫ͂̒͌̃̇̉ͪ̐ͮ̑͘͘͜ ̵̧̨̘̰̘͌̏ͬͤ̐ͬ̄̅̏̅͜ ̶͎̼̲̗̦͔̖͔̺̝̪͉̰͙͎̳͖̭̝̈́͒̀ͯ̽́̂̈́ͫͬ̆͒ͦͮ̅̓ͣ̚̚͠ ̶͚̮̩̱̗̱͉͉͎̬͍͙͖͙ͦ̔̓̾͒͐̿̇͑̋̽̈ͫ͜͜͠ ͆̑ͤ͗̊̇̾̊͑̾̿͏̝̦͈̻̞̜̹͉͚̮̤̹̖ ̡ͥ́̓ͦ̈́ͮ̓̓͢͏̛̲̯̟͔̪͎͎̙͙̱̫̼̖̘̻̄̽ͬ͊ͧ̐̓̂ͫ̍̑̑ͨͤ̄͊ͩͮ̏҉̸͔̭̥͖͉̝̳͎̹̣̤͠ͅ ̸̵͗̽̎ͫͧ͋ͮ̃̑ͪͬ̄̍̍҉̢̩̻̥̞͚̩̖̦̘̻̜̠͝ ̎ͮ͗̿̑͑̏͂̇̇̈ͨ̊̾ͯ҉͟͏̴͕͙͙̠̰̫̩͈͖͖̮̙̦̦̺̬̫ ̴̷̭̩̯̖͇̘̮̱̋ͨ̈́̃̒̒ͣ̚ ̴͍̲̺̰̹͖̠͕̙̦̭ͨ͊̇ͫͯ̉̋̈̒ͮ̈́͋̔̏͢ ̯̦̲̤͙͔͉̟̘̘̘̘̊̎̍͑͊̔͐ͭͣ̏̅͗͆̈́ ̨͍̬͚̯͍̱̠̝͍̭̺̬̲̭̰̯̒̽̿͂ͥͮͮͯ͌̾͜͠ͅ ̢͙̪̭̞̺͈̮̮͕̔́̎͗̀ͯ͜͠͠ ̸̭͍̣̲̤̮̪̞̠͈͉̟͎͐̒̌ͥͫ͐̈̃̆̆̈́̇̈̒ͅ ̙̲̙̬͉̩̼͍̣̳ͤ̂̾ͯ͗̎͋̾͗̾̃̍̈́̔̓ͬͨͫ̑͜͝ͅ ͮ̾̆͛͆̄͂ͫ̎͟҉͇̟͔̥͇̣̺̦̥̪͢͢ ̽̋̽̀̈ͪ̚҉̼̺͎͕̳̠̫̳̪ ̷̛̲̭̩͈̼̹̰̻͖̻͓̍ͪ̋̐̀ͭͥͩ̽͌͋̿̿ ̄̔͂̓́̔ͭ̿̃̚͡͝҉̸̪̗̮͉̱̙̘̙̻͔̦͚̝̳ ̛̛̙͖͇̹̬̤͇͍̘͖͙̪̣͔͕̘͍̅̒̽ͤͤ̆͋͆ͩͥ̄̈ͦ̚͘͞ ̒̎ͣ̊ͮͭͫ̌͛̽ͭͮ̚͡͏̴҉͏̣͚̥̻͕̺̮̱͚͇̮̹̳͉̭͔ͅͅ ̫̥͎͓̦̘̳̤̱̮̻̰̲̅ͣ̇̏̈̄ͦ͛ͣ̆ͦ̎̉̀̓̏ ̛͓͇̲̖ͮ̇͌ͧͭͭͬͮ̂͊̄̏̑̒̊͡͝͡

'̶̅̈́̈́ͭ̍ͩͩͪ̏ͩ̎̒̎͆̂̕'̈́̄̀͗ͨ̓̏͛̕͡'̧ͪͮ̊͂̒̾̒̾ͮͫ̿̄ͦ͘͞'ͥͫ͐͗ͥͪ̈́̿̏̅͜͢'̶̇̋͌ͤͦ͆͑̃͟'ͥͭͤ͐ͫ̏̌̏̑ͤ͟'̾͐ͯ̃͐ͬ͂ͪͤ͢͡'̸ͯ͑͌̄̇̀͋͋͜'̴̷ͨ̂̃̆҉'̵ͨ͗ͤ̾́̃̈́͑̆̅ͯ͠'̵̡͗̋̄̀̓̏͒̔̿̆҉҉'̢̛ͨͤ͐ͧ͂̂̆̒̇ͮ̅ͩ͆̂͋'̸͑̓̅̀ͦ̄͊̿͒́͜͠'̾̈̓͑̆̾͆ͦ̍̊ͯͩ͢҉̵̧'̡ͨ̐͛̍̅ͥ̈́̏̎͒̓̈̕͝'̵̷̔̈́̆̓ͦ̓̑͆ͥ̑̐̔ͩͤ̇̌̚̕͏̷'̌̈́̄̔̾͊̌̚'̴̸̛̍ͬ̈̾͐ͯͫ̽͌͆͑͛̉͊̿̊ͨ̚'̃̉̔ͪ͌ͧ͗̌ͯ̽̋̓̾͟͡҉̨'̨̓̎̍̽ͬ͋̊̂̐͒͟҉̨'̴̄̆̃͐̂͒ͦͯͨ̄͛́͌̐ͨ̉͐͑͡͝'̴̛ͮͪ̇̉͋͆ͪͬ͑ͥͭ͋̀͆̏ͤ̍͡'̨̨͊̽̌̾̑͐ͬ̒̌̽̾ͧ̓ͪ̏ͪ̚͡͞'̵̐̃̌̽ͦ͂ͧ̋͐̒̎ͦͨ͊̎̎͒̃͆͟'̨̆ͩ̃͑̋̌͆̄ͦͭ̿̏̎̌͊̽̎͊͡҉'̷̛̏̍͐͋ͩͨͯ̈́͊̄ͤ̋͊'̡ͤ̏͂̀͗̈̑̏̕͠

̨̢̄̉͆ͮ̊͆̆̅̿͋̑͋̃̽ͫͧ̇͗͜͏͕͔͉͍ ̶̨̢͈̲̯̪̘͍̝̫̝̖͖̖͉̯͎͕̞̃̈ͥ̍̄̉͆ͮ̊͆̆̅̿͋̑͋̃̽ͫͧ̇͗͘͢͜͏͕͔͉͍ ̶̨̢͈̲̯̪̘͍̝̫̝̖͖̖͉̯͎͕̞̃̈ͥ̍̄̉͆ͮ̊͆̆̅̿͋̑͋̃̽ͫͧ̇͗͘͢͜͏͕͔͉͍ ̶̨̢͈̲̯̪̘͍̝̫̝̖͖̖͉̯͎͕̞̃̈ͥ̍̄̉͆ͮ̊͆̆̅̿͋̑͋̃̽ͫͧ̇͗͘͢͜͏͕͔͉͍ ̶̨̢͈̲̯̪̘͍̝̫̝̖͖̖͉̯͎͕̞̃̈ͥ̍̄̉͆ͮ̊͆̆̅̿͋̑͋̃̽ͫͧ̇͗͘͢͜͏͕͔͉͍ ̶̨̢͈̲̯̪̘͍̝̫̝̖͖̖͉̯͎͕̞̃̈ͥ̍̄̉͆ͮ̊͆̆̅̿͋̑͋̃̽ͫͧ̇͗͘͢͜͏͕͔͉͍ ̶̨̢͈̲̯̪̘͍̝̫̝̖͖̖͉̯͎͕̞̃̈ͥ̍̄̉͆ͮ̊͆̆̅̿͋̑͋̃̽ͫͧ̇͗͘͢͜͏͕͔͉͍ ̶̨̢͈̲̯̪̘͍̝̫̝̖͖̖͉̯͎͕̞̃̈ͥ̍̄̉͆ͮ̊͆̆̅̿͋̑͋̃̽ͫͧ̇͗͘͢͜͏͕͔͉͍ ̶͈̲̯̪̘͍̝̫̝̖͖̖͉̯͎͕̞̃̈ͥ̍͘͢

̢̡̦̺̪͕̬͕̠̜̳̫̣̖̣̔̔̆̋̒͂ͫ͋ ̧̹̩̩͙̻̖̳͉̠̍̏ͫͥͦͮͤ̽̏ͫͤ͝ ̴̱͙̻͓̼̗̪͔̙̮̜̊̏͛̍́͘͠ ̢̨ͤ͗̄ͪͨͦͮ́ͪ̎̾ͧ̒̂̓̏͏̛̙͚̥̝̫̪̫̠̬̰̱̫̫̣͝ͅͅͅ ̊̑̓̆ͣͮ͋̎̇͊ͧ̈͊̓̚҉̷̧͕͙̖͕͇͓̱̮̭͈̣̗̻͔͜ͅ ̦͕̞̞͔̖̭̖̹̥͚͉͍̼̱̮ͣͥ̈́̏́̔̕ͅ ̶̛͍̩̫̩͓͈̻͍̮̙̪̱̺͙ͩ̍̔ͮ͐ͭͅ ̵̸̨̪̗̣̗͈̞͉͖͉̰̥̐͌̐̌̕͝ͅ ͍̭̠̘̰̞̭͙̤̆̽̂̿̏̇̂͢ͅ ̸̨ͦ̈́̈́ͦ̇̾ͫ̄ͤ̇̑ͥ̚͜҉̶̻̫̱̳͇̤͙̹̰̳̥̘͕͙ ̡ͥͦ͌̇̄ͮͯ͌̉̔͞͞͏̫͖͔̤̪̪̖̜̯̦ ̵̸̶̖̺̤͉̱̼͔̯̱̮͓͕̙̳̹̹͖̹͉͋͆͋ͣ͐̂̌̉͛͟ ̸̱̝͇̲͖͔̤̮̜̞̹͚̄͋ͨ̔ͧ̑ͯ͛ͬ̂̃ͮ̾̌̍́̓̍͆͡͠ ̄̽ͬ͊ͧ̐̓̂ͫ̍̑̑ͨͤ̄͊ͩͮ̏҉̸͔̭̥͖͉̝̳͎̹̣̤͠ͅ ̸̵͗̽̎ͫͧ͋ͮ̃̑ͪͬ̄̍̍҉̢̩̻̥̞͚̩̖̦̘̻̜̠͝ ̎ͮ͗̿̑͑̏͂̇̇̈ͨ̊̾ͯ҉͟͏̴͕͙͙̠̰̫̩͈͖͖̮̙̦̦̺̬̫ ̴̷̭̩̯̖͇̘̮̱̋ͨ̈́̃̒̒ͣ̚ ̴͍̲̺̰̹͖̠͕̙̦̭ͨ͊̇ͫͯ̉̋̈̒ͮ̈́͋̔̏͢ ̯̦̲̤͙͔͉̟̘̘̘̘̊̎̍͑͊̔͐ͭͣ̏̅͗͆̈́ ̨͍̬͚̯͍̱̠̝͍̭̺̬̲̭̰̯̒̽̿͂ͥͮͮͯ͌̾͜͠ͅ ̢͙̪̭̞̺͈̮̮͕̔́̎͗̀ͯ͜͠͠ ̸̭͍̣̲̤̮̪̞̠͈͉̟͎͐̒̌ͥͫ͐̈̃̆̆̈́̇̈̒ͅ ̙̲̙̬͉̩̼͍̣̳ͤ̂̾ͯ͗̎͋̾͗̾̃̍̈́̔̓ͬͨͫ̑͜͝ͅ ͮ̾̆͛͆̄͂ͫ̎͟҉͇̟͔̥͇̣̺̦̥̪͢͢ ̽̋̽̀̈ͪ̚҉̼̺͎͕̳̠̫̳̪ ̷̛̲̭̩͈̼̹̰̻͖̻͓̍ͪ̋̐̀ͭͥͩ̽͌͋̿̿ ̄̔͂̓́̔ͭ̿̃̚͡͝҉̸̪̗̮͉̱̙̘̙̻͔̦͚̝̳ ̛̛̙͖͇̹̬̤͇͍̘͖͙̪̣͔͕̘͍̅̒̽ͤͤ̆͋͆ͩͥ̄̈ͦ̚͘͞ ̒̎ͣ̊ͮͭͫ̌͛̽ͭͮ̚͡͏̴҉͏̣͚̥̻͕̺̮̱͚͇̮̹̳͉̭͔ͅͅ ̫̥͎͓̦̘̳̤̱̮̻̰̲̅ͣ̇̏̈̄ͦ͛ͣ̆ͦ̎̉̀̓̏ ̛͓͇̲̖ͮ̇͌ͧͭͭͬͮ̂͊̄̏̑̒̊͡͝͡ ̷̗͔͓̘̫͇͍͈̩̖̲̝̭̳̒͌͗ͤͤͥ͐ͥ͜͝͞͠ ͌ͧ̍̔̊̆͡҉͈̹͓̰̙̫̹͎͓̲͙̳̹̣̰ͅ  ̸̢̡̛͔̖̪̥͎͕̰̠̘̝̦̺̪͕̬͕̠̜̳̫̣̖̣̎̉͆ͭ̃ͪ̀̈̓͛̽̔̔̆̋̒͂ͫ͋͢ ̧̹̩̩͙̻̖̳͉̠̍̏ͫͥͦͮͤ̽̏ͫͤ͝ ̴̱͙̻͓̼̗̪͔̙̮̜̊̏͛̍́̍̐ͥ͂̉͑ͥͨ͘͜͢͠҉̵͎̜̹͎͕̤̰̗͈̘͈ ̪̦̜͍͖̖͇̞̞͛̐ͥͥͥ̈͐̄̇̆ͧ̈̆ͨ̌͞͞ͅ ̴͖̭̲̺͖͚̹̲͚̭̪̼̥̤̗͔̤̌ͩ͛̈́ͩ̇ͫ͐ͬ͗ͧ̕͜͞ ̛͕̭̯̦͎̗̜̰̺̠̼̱̟̿ͫ͑ͬ̕ ͉͓̱̠̟̥͉̌̐ͣͤ͆̑̇͝ ̢̐́̅̈ͪ͆͗͘҉̹̲̹͉̯̥̱̣̻̯̱̜̖̹̤͖̦̤ ̸̷̷̨̦̻͕͙̮̽̈ͦͦͧͩ́ͣ̌̿͐ͬͦ̽͠ͅ ̩̝͎̺̭͖̪͎̙̻̗̳̜̠̞̳͑͐̅̿̑ͭͬ̿̔ͮͤͨ͒̔̚͞ͅͅ ̡̺͕̫̲̜͎͔̭̯̜̞͚͈̫́̆̃͊͛ͬ́ͭ͑͋̒͑͞ ̨̙̳̦͉͇͎̗͚̞̳͚̟̺͉̞͔ͯ̓͛ͯ̓̄̽ͭͨ̌ͫ̚͘͘͢ ̸̣̪̪̲̙͎̭͎̗̭̼̱͈̹̠̌̔ͥ͂͋͘ ̨̀ͩͥͥͦͧ́̍̋̎͊̍ͫͭ͂̃̈̋͏̜̙̦̲̗̥̬̺̘̹̞̭͓̦̙ ̵̧̨̢̥̳̟͇̪͈̟̈͋͛̆ͧ͆͋̈ͪ̄̉͆ͮ̊͆̆̅̿͋̑͋̃̽ͫͧ̇͗͜͡͠͏͕͔͉͍ ̶͈̲̯̪̘͍̝̫̝̖͖̖͉̯͎͕̞̃̈ͥ̍͘͢ ̄̿ͪ͐͒ͤ̓͋̍ͭ̐̄ͦ̀̐̈́̓͛ͩ͏̧͎̦̠̻̻͕̤͍̟͉͉̩ ̳̹͓̞̏̏͛͛̑̉̂̉̽ͨͣͮ̋̏̈́̃̒͜͟ ̸̢̡̛͔̖̪̥͎͕̰̠̘̝̦̺̪͕̬͕̠̜̳̫̣̖̣̎̉͆ͭ̃ͪ̀̈̓͛̽̔̔̆̋̒͂ͫ͋͢ ̧̹̩̩͙̻̖̳͉̠̍̏ͫͥͦͮͤ̽̏ͫͤ͝ ̴̱͙̻͓̼̗̪͔̙̮̜̊̏͛̍́͘͠ ̢̨ͤ͗̄ͪͨͦͮ́ͪ̎̾ͧ̒̂̓̏͏̛̙͚̥̝̫̪̫̠̬̰̱̫̫̣͝ͅͅͅ ̊̑̓̆ͣͮ͋̎̇͊ͧ̈͊̓̚҉̷̧͕͙̖͕͇͓̱̮̭͈̣̗̻͔͜ͅ ̦͕̞̞͔̖̭̖̹̥͚͉͍̼̱̮ͣͥ̈́̏́̔̕ͅ ̶̛͍̩̫̩͓͈̻͍̮̙̪̱̺͙ͩ̍̔ͮ͐ͭͅ ̵̸̨̪̗̣̗͈̞͉͖͉̰̥̐͌̐̌̕͝ͅ ͍̭̠̘̰̞̭͙̤̆̽̂̿̏̇̂͢ͅ ̸̨ͦ̈́̈́ͦ̇̾ͫ̄ͤ̇̑ͥ̚͜҉̶̻̫̱̳͇̤͙̹̰̳̥̘͕͙ ̡ͥͦ͌̇̄ͮͯ͌̉̔͞͞͏̫͖͔̤̪̪̖̜̯̦ ̵̸̶̖̺̤͉̱̼͔̯̱̮͓͕̙̳̹̹͖̹͉͋͆͋ͣ͐̂̌̉͛͟ ̸̱̝͇̲͖͔̤̮̜̞̹͚̄͋ͨ̔ͧ̑ͯ͛ͬ̂̃ͮ̾̌̍́̓̍͆͡͠ ̄̽ͬ͊ͧ̐̓̂ͫ̍̑̑ͨͤ̄͊ͩͮ̏҉̸͔̭̥͖͉̝̳͎̹̣̤͠ͅ ̸̵͗̽̎ͫͧ͋ͮ̃̑ͪͬ̄̍̍҉̢̩̻̥̞͚̩̖̦̘̻̜̠͝'̶̅̈́̈́ͭ̍ͩͩͪ̏ͩ̎̒̎͆̂̕'̈́̄̀͗ͨ̓̏͛̕͡'̧ͪͮ̊͂̒̾̒̾ͮͫ̿̄ͦ͘͞'ͥͫ͐͗ͥͪ̈́̿̏̅͜͢'̶̇̋͌ͤͦ͆͑̃͟'ͥͭͤ͐ͫ̏̌̏̑ͤ͟'̾͐ͯ̃͐ͬ͂ͪͤ͢͡'̸ͯ͑͌̄̇̀͋͋͜'̴̷ͨ̂̃̆҉'̵ͨ͗ͤ̾́̃̈́͑̆̅ͯ͠'̵̡͗̋̄̀̓̏͒̔̿̆҉҉'̢̛ͨͤ͐ͧ͂̂̆̒̇ͮ̅ͩ͆̂͋'̸͑̓̅̀ͦ̄͊̿͒́͜͠'̾̈̓͑̆̾͆ͦ̍̊ͯͩ͢҉̵̧'̡ͨ̐͛̍̅ͥ̈́̏̎͒̓̈̕͝'̵̷̔̈́̆̓ͦ̓̑͆ͥ̑̐̔ͩͤ̇̌̚̕͏̷'̌̈́̄̔̾͊̌̚'̴̸̛̍ͬ̈̾͐ͯͫ̽͌͆͑͛̉͊̿̊ͨ̚'̃̉̔ͪ͌ͧ͗̌ͯ̽̋̓̾͟͡҉̨'̨̓̎̍̽ͬ͋̊̂̐͒͟҉̨'̴̄̆̃͐̂͒ͦͯͨ̄͛́͌̐ͨ̉͐͑͡͝'̴̛ͮͪ̇̉͋͆ͪͬ͑ͥͭ͋̀͆̏ͤ̍͡'̨̨͊̽̌̾̑͐ͬ̒̌̽̾ͧ̓ͪ̏ͪ̚͡͞'̵̐̃̌̽ͦ͂ͧ̋͐̒̎ͦͨ͊̎̎͒̃͆͟'̨̆ͩ̃͑̋̌͆̄ͦͭ̿̏̎̌͊̽̎͊͡҉'̷̛̏̍͐͋ͩͨͯ̈́͊̄ͤ̋͊'̡ͤ̏͂̀͗̈̑̏̕͠ ̛͓͇̲̖ͮ̇͌ͧͭͭͬͮ̂͊̄̏̑̒̊͡͝͡ ̷̗͔͓̘̫͇͍͈̩̖̲̝̭̳̒͌͗ͤͤͥ͐ͥ͜͝͞͠ ͌ͧ̍̔̊̆͡҉͈̹͓̰̙̫̹͎͓̲͙̳̹̣̰ͅ ̻͓̦̠̻̯͈̮̻̤͈̣̭̯ͬ̉̉̚͡͡ͅͅ ̨̢̄̉͆ͮ̊͆̆̅̿͋̑͋̃̽ͫͧ̇͗͜͏͕͔͉͍ ̶͈̲̯̪̘͍̝̫̝̖͖̖͉̯͎͕̞̃̈ͥ̍͘͢ ͙̮̖͕̱̗́͊̀̋̓̈̓̍̉̆͛̐͊ͮͪ͜ ̸͇͖̺̖̲̤͎̳̰͈̺̖̊́̉͆ͧͦͭ͞ ̍̐ͥ͂̉͑ͥͨ͜͢҉̵͎̜̹͎͕̤̰̗͈̘͈ ̪̦̜͍͖̖͇̞̞͛̐ͥͥͥ̈͐̄̇̆ͧ̈̆ͨ̌͞͞ͅ ̴͖̭̲̺͖͚̹̲͚̭̪̼̥̤̗͔̤̌ͩ͛̈́ͩ̇ͫ͐ͬ͗ͧ̕͜͞ ̷̢͢ ̵̴͢ ̴̢͢͜ ̵̛ ̷̷̧ ̨ ͢͜ ̸͏ ̸̣̪̪̲̙͎̭͎̗̭̼̱͈̹̠̌̔ͥ͂͋͘ ̨̀ͩͥͥͦͧ́̍̋̎͊̍ͫͭ͂̃̈̋͏̜̙̦̲̗̥̬̺̘̹̞̭͓̦̙ ̵̧̥̳̟͇̪͈̟̈͋͛̆ͧ͆͋̈ͪ͡͠ ̄̿ͪ͐͒ͤ̓͋̍ͭ̐̄ͦ̀̐̈́̓͛ͩ͏̧͎̦̠̻̻͕̤͍̟͉͉̩ ̳̹͓̞̏̏͛͛̑̉̂̉̽ͨͣͮ̋̏̈́̃̒͜͟ ̸̛͔̖̪̥͎͕̰̠̘̝̎̉͆ͭ̃ͪ̀̈̓͛̽͢ ̶̨̣̹̤̘̗̳ͥ̌͂͗̽͌̂̊͒ͫ ̱̞̞̰̲̝̗͓̞͇͙͕͚̪̩̩̻̅̂͒̐̑̈́̉̊̚͟ͅ ̶̵̶ͮͭ̍̈ͨͥ͐̅ͥͩ͂͛́̓҉̙̦͖̬ ̵̧̻͈̻̳̜͑̃́̂̓́͆͂̈͒̀̋ͦ͂ͭ͑̂͛ ̖̗̻̝̿ͥͮͨ͑́́͗͌ͫ͘͡ ̴̖͔̯̹̤͉̭͈̙͈͎̠͉̳͍̯̀̾ͧͭ͊͌̄ͦ́̈́̎ͨ̇̾͑͛ͦ͠ ̧͊̋̏̐͂͛ͭ̀̾ͦ͋̄̓͋͒̚҉͎̯̫͉͓͕̬͉̻̹̙̥̠̭͞ ̵̈́̊̉̏͗̿̅̋̑ͭ͗̌̅̉ͫ̽̚҉̛͈͚̪͔̭̳̰̗̜͓ ̷̢̈͂̅͐̓̊ͧ͋̆̍ͧ̿ͩ̂͘͏̞͉̳̩̲̫̭̣̤͈̳ ̛̜̩͉̣̺̼̘͈͖͌ͤ͂ͧ̑̾͘͟͡ ̸̧̣̰̭̘̱̗͎̞̱͑ͤͣ͒̉̀̾̍̓ͤ̑͐̊̄̕͟ ̵̶̩̜̱̬̭̳͚͈̬̦̦͉̄̅̎̔͋͂̃̉̊͗̏̇̚̚͝ ̗͖͓̩̲̳͖̝̜̞͑͂ͧ̆͆̏ͬͣͮ͑͒̌ͩͫ͌̏͡ ̸͓̦͙̰̙̬̱͕͈̠͎̞̅͋͛̒͡͞͠ ̵̐̀̔ͩ͒̿̈́̌ͭ͋ͦͣ̔͋̾͌͒͟͏̗̞͔̳̟͇̗̪͉͍͓͔̼̝̹ ̵̟̹̺͙̱̫͎̱̦̹͇̪̱͕̄̇̒͌ͨ͐̽̂̐̌̂͗̊̃͠ ̷̞͎̥̩̩̰̺͓̥ͨ͑̆̐̌̋̄̽̓͒͗ͭ̎͢͢ ̸̶͉̦̟̬͈̬̼̳̫̲̗̜͖̘̞̮̭̞̗ͯ̈̿̆̓͐̉ͪ̓̌ ̵̦̥͕̗̪͍̭̘̫̼̥̤̗̑͗̄ͯ̋̆̕͜͝ ̨͌͑̀̍̉͊̒͌ͬ͗ͥ͘҉̛͈͚̞̙̱͚͖̻̤̩͈͇̮ͅͅ ̵̧̥͙̫̦͙̗̯̣̰͙͉̜̝̣͖͈̑͗ͯͣ̆̓ͤ̓́̓ ̶̧̘̜̩͉̭̫͙̉̓̈ͨ͑̏̔̾̾͊̾ ͫ͑̓͂ͩ̊͒ͬ̿̇ͭ̒̀̅̏ͭ͂҉̷̨͓̟͖̤̞͙̻͔̖ͅ ̧̛̭̱̺͎̙̅̅̔̒̒̈́̂ͯ̋̾̇̎ͪ̎ͫ̂̄̄ ̶ͫͯ̈ͦ̔̈̔̉̅ͨͧͯ̈͒̉̉̎͒҉̸̷͉̭̘̘̘̙̗͈̬͇̼͙̥̪͖̤͉͕͢ͅ ̷̴̡̭̹̜̥̠̮̪ͧ̂ͦ͟ ̲̖̰̦̫̹̖̰̟̰͕͙̎̐ͮ̆͌̑͂̃ͩ̂͛̇̚͢͡ ̨̛̘̳̣̱̫̗͙̲̦̪̘̠͚͚̩̣̤̰̍͌̿̃̌͒̏͐ͮ̔̕ͅ ̨͎͕̣̹̝̬͓̳͚̜̝̊͆̊̒̂̏̚̚͢ ̢ͯͤ͛͗̒͑͠͏͖̥͙̠̞ ̶͈͚͍̫̤̭̳̘͚̭̼̲̘̹͒ͪ͛̐ͣ͗̄ͥ͝ ̾͗́͆ͦ̐͐̓̊̉̐̂̇ͯ̉̎̈̐̀͡҉̵͓̦̫͚̼͟͠ ̴̢̞̩̞̼̬͈̘̝ͧ̌ͪ̄͌ͣͧͤ̎̌͌̓͊̋ͪ͛̏̐̾ ̉̑̒̾̈̆ͨ̓̾̾ͪ̍͗ͨ͘҉̳̬̲͉̪̼͕͇̣̳̞ ̡̩͙̞͙͓̥̹̪̲̳̫̺̰̝̤̝̤̣̎̈̈́ͩͧͭͦ͑ͯͧ͑̎̿̚̕ ̨̧̡̛͎̝̦̥̺̞̬̯̖̟͎̲̻̠͉͈͍̮͑͑͊̑̋ͧͨ̐̽̽̉ͪ͆͒ͭ͋̌͗͢ͅ ̶̴͎͇̹̳̰̫̙͍̼͕̣͉̠͖̝̌ͫ̃ͨͬ̓ͩ͆̓ͧ̓ͥ͟͞ͅ ̷̢͎̟̭͉͙̮̣͈̰͉̫̳̩̙͇͋ͫ̓ͩ̌̾ͬ̋̐̂ͣ͋͟ͅ ̢̛̞̪̰͓̫͙͖̩̲̮̩̣͉̞̩̘̉ͧ̒̈́͆ͥͦ̌͛ͩ̆͐̽̿ͯͭ̎̚ ͍̩͉̹͕̫̗̲̮̮͍̲͉͍̼̠̻͗̂͒ͤͣͣͨ͝͝ͅͅ ̔͒͑̚̕͏͙͈̝͚̯̼͓͇͙͡ ̴̢̩̜͕̱̮̬͎̝̫̯͓͙ͭ͐ͫ̍͂͌͂ͤ̉̄̂͗́͒̍̈́͐̇̚͘͠ ̔͐̽̃͂͛̈́̈͛̓͛̂̆̊̀͊̚͡͏̡̯͙̗͇͙͙͓̖͙̥̞̥̜̘̜̥̥ ̰̫̳̫̫̙̬̙̥̥̺̼̩͕̎ͧ̀͒ͧͯ͒̍̇͊̆ͮͩͮ͑̿̊̐ͅ ̸̤̤̰̼̰̬̞̖̠̮̎͑͋̎̂ͅͅ ̵̝͔͖ͤ͑̆̃̈ͬͥͮ͞͞ ̶̞̫̯̦̣͖͓͔̜̣̜ͦͬ̔͗ͤ͢ ̷̳̦̦̲̱̗̜̯͙̖̙̃̒̈̾̈́ͩͮ̒ͬ͛̆̓ͧͦ͞ͅ ̷̣̙̱͉̜̜̀ͨ̑̽̿ͪ͋̈̕ͅ ̈́͂͐̑ͬͫ̊́̾ͯͦ̑ͩ͗͏̡̯͈̝͖̮̞̘͉̹̼̫͎̼̕ ̢͎̲̻͎̻̰͓͓͉̮̥̣͎̰̙̠̪̭̊ͮ͌͟ͅ ̸̜̳̩̤̞̜͉̼͚̆̏̅̽͗̏̀͛̿̊̈́ͦ̊͋̔̈͂͂ͦ̕͝ ̬̱̦̮̰͇ͤ̽ͯͯ̔ͧ͌ͧ̃ͤ͟͜͡ ̷͎͉͎̺͓̪͚͇̖̦̞̬̯̙̭̖͗ͭ̾̈́́̈́̏̈́̑̈́ͦ̋̄ͩ͟ ̳̟̼̯̠̜͉͇̜̙͔̰͎͉̜̗͎ͧͦ̀ͣͫ͆ͪ̿̌̌͋̊͘͢͞͡͡ ̴̦̼̪͉̣̜͍̂͗͊̕͢͞ ̧̫͓͈̼͕͉̘͇̭̖̜͇͕͇̺ͣͤͨ̍̚̚̕̕͠ͅͅ ̷̦̮̘̲̺̼͚̻̱̫̘̱̟̼̝͚͈͗ͮ̈ͪͧ͆ͪ̈͆̎̊ͣ̾͠ ͬͭ̐ͤ̄͂ͫ̾̓̆ͤͮͮͫ҉̸̥̲̳̰̱͇̜̯͕̘̳͍ ̴̧̦͎̤͙̣ͮ͐̇͂̒ͣ͒̎ͯͭ̉̍͂͛̃̚͝ ̸̧ͩ̉ͩ̀̽͊̐̓̅̊͂̽̍ͥͪ̆̐̾͘҉͙͇͓̯̻̟̝̙͖̠̣̗̱̜͈̝ͅ ̴̶̟̜̳̝̰̏ͯ̈́̔͌̏ͤ̍̎̕͝ ͨ̿̀ͭ̊̿̌̅̾̏͛ͥ͒ͦ͏̛̤̺̪ ̨͈͇͖̫̭̘̩̳͎̮̝͆ͦ̂ͨ͛̅̈́̉͆̀ͦ́̓́̒́̿ͧ̕͝ ̐̅̅̈́͊҉̴̮̙̖͈̱͈ ̂͊̋͛̅͛̓҉҉͚̭̩̦̗͍͇̯̟͉̞̳̭͟͝ͅ ̰̻̯̫͔͇̺̞̝͚̝̞̜̮̙͊̈́̍̓̑̇̿ͧ̍ͮͩ̀̊͘͟ ͬ͂͛͛ͥ̃͊ͣͩͣ́̈͘͏̺͕͍͓͈͚̠̖̩̺̥̳͉͈͟ ̴̼̤͚̰͚͙͕̰͉̘̳̭̫̯͔͕̞͕̣ͮ͐̇͑̅̈́̓̒̀ͧ͆̚͡ ̸̸̹͖̯̮̳̱̘͎̟ͮ̓ͦͦ

̄̽ͬ͊ͧ̐̓̂ͫ̍̑̑ͨͤ̄͊ͩͮ̏҉̸͔̭̥͖͉̝̳͎̹̣̤͠ͅ ̸̵͗̽̎ͫͧ͋ͮ̃̑ͪͬ̄̍̍҉̢̩̻̥̞͚̩̖̦̘̻̜̠͝ ̎ͮ͗̿̑͑̏͂̇̇̈ͨ̊̾ͯ҉͟͏̴͕͙͙̠̰̫̩͈͖͖̮̙̦̦̺̬̫ ̴̷̭̩̯̖͇̘̮̱̋ͨ̈́̃̒̒ͣ̚ ̴͍̲̺̰̹͖̠͕̙̦̭ͨ͊̇ͫͯ̉̋̈̒ͮ̈́͋̔̏͢ ̯̦̲̤͙͔͉̟̘̘̘̘̊̎̍͑͊̔͐ͭͣ̏̅͗͆̈́ ̨͍̬͚̯͍̱̠̝͍̭̺̬̲̭̰̯̒̽̿͂ͥͮͮͯ͌̾͜͠ͅ ̢͙̪̭̞̺͈̮̮͕̔́̎͗̀ͯ͜͠͠ ̸̭͍̣̲̤̮̪̞̠͈͉̟͎͐̒̌ͥͫ͐̈̃̆̆̈́̇̈̒ͅ ̙̲̙̬͉̩̼͍̣̳ͤ̂̾ͯ͗̎͋̾͗̾̃̍̈́̔̓ͬͨͫ̑͜͝ͅ ͮ̾̆͛͆̄͂ͫ̎͟҉͇̟͔̥͇̣̺̦̥̪͢͢ ̽̋̽̀̈ͪ̚҉̼̺͎͕̳̠̫̳̪ ̷̛̲̭̩͈̼̹̰̻͖̻͓̍ͪ̋̐̀ͭͥͩ̽͌͋̿̿ ̄̔͂̓́̔ͭ̿̃̚͡͝҉̸̪̗̮͉̱̙̘̙̻͔̦͚̝̳ ̛̛̙͖͇̹̬̤͇͍̘͖͙̪̣͔͕̘͍̅̒̽ͤͤ̆͋͆ͩͥ̄̈ͦ̚͘͞ ̒̎ͣ̊ͮͭͫ̌͛̽ͭͮ̚͡͏̴҉͏̣͚̥̻͕̺̮̱͚͇̮̹̳͉̭͔ͅͅ ̫̥͎͓̦̘̳̤̱̮̻̰̲̅ͣ̇̏̈̄ͦ͛ͣ̆ͦ̎̉̀̓̏ ̛͓͇̲̖ͮ̇͌ͧͭͭͬͮ̂͊̄̏̑̒̊͡͝͡ ̸̢̡̛͔̖̪̥͎͕̰̠̘̝̦̺̪͕̬͕̠̜̳̫̣̖̣̎̉͆ͭ̃ͪ̀̈̓͛̽̔̔̆̋̒͂ͫ͋͢ ̧̹̩̩͙̻̖̳͉̠̍̏ͫͥͦͮͤ̽̏ͫͤ͝ ̴̱͙̻͓̼̗̪͔̙̮̜̊̏͛̍́͘͠ ̷̢͢ ̵̴͢ ̴̢͢͜ ̵̛ ̷̷̧ ̨ ͢͜ ̸͏̷̢͢ ̵̴͢ ̴̢͢͜ ̵̛ ̷̷̧ ̨ ͢͜ ̸͏

  ̩̟̖͎͙̝ͅ ̹̳̱̲̠̻̗͎̻ͅ ̼̻͎͓̟̼͉̻̮̮̮͕̣͔͖̺̳̬̙ ̝̲̦͈̜̯̪̯͇̱̪̹̫̯̦̲͙ ̹̝͉͍̪̞̞̬̰̩̥̞̦̪̰̣̙͕ ͖̻̠̰̬͕̟̘̹̺̯͓̤̞̲̬̘͔ ̮̮̙̪͕͕̺ ̮͚̳͇̟̥̲ ̱͚̥̣̳̠ ͖̭̫̞̟̝͙̠͕̙͉̰͎̫̼̺ ̷̢͢ ̵̴͢ ̴̢͢͜ ̵̛ ̷̷̧ ̨ ͢͜ ̸͏̳̻͚̣̜̮̟̫͉̞̜̜͚̪̭̺ ͓͍̦̘̖͓͙̫ ͚̲̗̹͔͎̱͚͙͈̱̖ ͙̱̘̳͈̩͇̖͔ ̟͈̹̩̫̯̘͚̺ ̷̶̷͈̯̙͈̲͓̱̲̝͓̗̦̙ ̵̧̧̛̟̤̥͉̝̘͎̬̗͖͍͚̫͎͙̕ͅ ҉̶̢̮̣̫̕͡ ̨͈͉̟̣̰͞͡ ̜͚̣̬̙̺̲̥͉͓̹͍̬̟͢ͅͅ ҉̴͝͏̷͍̞̠͈͈̪͚̱̺̘̞̤̼̩͉̮̩͔ͅ ̶̞͖͚͜ ̷̶̬͈̪͚̼͕̖͈̞̹̟̭̬͈͎̩̲͞ ̧͚̜̰̺̪̗̩̘̪͕̮̜͍͟ ̷̴̶̶̺̥͇̠͓̥̠̯͍̟̘̥̹̠̯̘̺͇͢ ̴̵̶͇̺̤͕̼̘͔̩͢ ̢̧̛̮̞͓̗͕̥͙͇̪͈̞͔͇̙̜͖̝͈ ̴̡̻̻̟̙̭̪̮̘̹̰̫̭͜͜ ̢̧̨̲̙̠͚̜̙̯͍̪̣̖̲̞̬̦̼̕ ̛͘҉͖̯̫̮͉̦͖̣̗ͅ

̨̢̄̉͆ͮ̊͆̆̅̿͋̑͋̃̽ͫͧ̇͗͜͏͕͔͉͍ ̶͈̲̯̪̘͍̝̫̝̖͖̖͉̯͎͕̞̃̈ͥ̍͘͢ '̶̅̈́̈́ͭ̍ͩͩͪ̏ͩ̎̒̎͆̂̕'̈́̄̀͗ͨ̓̏͛̕͡'̧ͪͮ̊͂̒̾̒̾ͮͫ̿̄ͦ͘͞'ͥͫ͐͗ͥͪ̈́̿̏̅͜͢'̶̇̋͌ͤͦ͆͑̃͟'ͥͭͤ͐ͫ̏̌̏̑ͤ͟'̾͐ͯ̃͐ͬ͂ͪͤ͢͡'̸ͯ͑͌̄̇̀͋͋͜'̴̷ͨ̂̃̆҉'̵ͨ͗ͤ̾́̃̈́͑̆̅ͯ͠'̵̡͗̋̄̀̓̏͒̔̿̆҉҉'̢̛ͨͤ͐ͧ͂̂̆̒̇ͮ̅ͩ͆̂͋'̸͑̓̅̀ͦ̄͊̿͒́͜͠'̾̈̓͑̆̾͆ͦ̍̊ͯͩ͢҉̵̧'̡ͨ̐͛̍̅ͥ̈́̏̎͒̓̈̕͝'̵̷̔̈́̆̓ͦ̓̑͆ͥ̑̐̔ͩͤ̇̌̚̕͏̷'̌̈́̄̔̾͊̌̚'̴̸̛̍ͬ̈̾͐ͯͫ̽͌͆͑͛̉͊̿̊ͨ̚'̃̉̔ͪ͌ͧ͗̌ͯ̽̋̓̾͟͡҉̨'̨̓̎̍̽ͬ͋̊̂̐͒͟҉̨'̴̄̆̃͐̂͒ͦͯͨ̄͛́͌̐ͨ̉͐͑͡͝'̴̛ͮͪ̇̉͋͆ͪͬ͑ͥͭ͋̀͆̏ͤ̍͡'̨̨͊̽̌̾̑͐ͬ̒̌̽̾ͧ̓ͪ̏ͪ̚͡͞'̵̐̃̌̽ͦ͂ͧ̋͐̒̎ͦͨ͊̎̎͒̃͆͟'̨̆ͩ̃͑̋̌͆̄ͦͭ̿̏̎̌͊̽̎͊͡҉'̷̛̏̍͐͋ͩͨͯ̈́͊̄ͤ̋͊'̡ͤ̏͂̀͗̈̑̏̕͠ ͮ̾̆͛͆̄͂ͫ̎͟҉͇̟͔̥͇̣̺̦̥̪͢͢ ̽̋̽̀̈ͪ̚҉̼̺͎͕̳̠̫̳̪ ̷̛̲̭̩͈̼̹̰̻͖̻͓̍ͪ̋̐̀ͭͥͩ̽͌͋̿̿ ̄̔͂̓́̔ͭ̿̃̚͡͝҉̸̪̗̮͉̱̙̘̙̻͔̦͚̝̳ ̛̛̙͖͇̹̬̤͇͍̘͖͙̪̣͔͕̘͍̅̒̽ͤͤ̆͋͆ͩͥ̄̈ͦ̚͘͞ ̒̎ͣ̊ͮͭͫ̌͛̽ͭͮ̚͡͏̴҉͏̣͚̥̻͕̺̮̱͚͇̮̹̳͉̭͔ͅͅ ̫̥͎͓̦̘̳̤̱̮̻̰̲̅ͣ̇̏̈̄ͦ͛ͣ̆ͦ̎̉̀̓̏       ̛̛̙͖͇̹̬̤͇͍̘͖͙̪̣͔͕̘͍̅̒̽ͤͤ̆͋͆ͩͥ̄̈ͦ̚͘͞ ̴̱͙̻͓̼̗̪͔̙̮̜̊̏͛̍́̐̅̅̈́͊͘͠҉̴̮̙̖͈̱͈ ̂͊̋͛̅͛̓҉҉͚̭̩̦̗͍͇̯̟͉̞̳̭͟͝ͅ ̒̎ͣ̊ͮͭͫ̌͛̽ͭͮ̚͡͏̴҉͏̣͚̥̻͕̺̮̱͚͇̮̹̳͉̭͔ͅͅ ̛̛̙͖͇̹̬̤͇͍̘͖͙̪̣͔͕̘͍̅̒̽ͤͤ̆͋͆ͩͥ̄̈ͦ̚͘͞ ̒̎ͣ̊ͮͭͫ̌͛̽ͭͮ̚͡͏̴҉͏̣͚̥̻͕̺̮̱͚͇̮̹̳͉̭͔ͅͅ ̸̢̡̛͔̖̪̥͎͕̰̠̘̝̦̺̪͕̬͕̠̜̳̫̣̖̣̎̉͆ͭ̃ͪ̀̈̓͛̽̔̔̆̋̒͂ͫ͋͢ ̧̹̩̩͙̻̖̳͉̠̍̏ͫͥͦͮͤ̽̏ͫͤ͝ ̴̱͙̻͓̼̗̪͔̙̮̜̊̏͛̍́͘͠                 ̪̳̹͈͚͕̭͙̘̺͞ ̡̮̤͍͇̠͕̥͚̗͎̲͇͓̤̕

̄̽ͬ͊ͧ̐̓̂ͫ̍̑̑ͨͤ̄͊ͩͮ̏҉̸͔̭̥͖͉̝̳͎̹̣̤͠ͅ ̸̵͗̽̎ͫͧ͋ͮ̃̑ͪͬ̄̍̍҉̢̩̻̥̞͚̩̖̦̘̻̜̠͝ ̎ͮ͗̿̑͑̏͂̇̇̈ͨ̊̾ͯ҉͟͏̴͕͙͙̠̰̫̩͈͖͖̮̙̦̦̺̬̫ ̴̷̭̩̯̖͇̘̮̱̋ͨ̈́̃̒̒ͣ̚ ̴͍̲̺̰̹͖̠͕̙̦̭ͨ͊̇ͫͯ̉̋̈̒ͮ̈́͋̔̏͢ ̯̦̲̤͙͔͉̟̘̘̘̘̊̎̍͑͊̔͐ͭͣ̏̅͗͆̈́ ͮ̾̆͛͆̄͂ͫ̎͟҉͇̟͔̥͇̣̺̦̥̪͢͢ ̽̋̽̀̈ͪ̚҉̼̺͎͕̳̠̫̳̪ ̷̛̲̭̩͈̼̹̰̻͖̻͓̍ͪ̋̐̀ͭͥͩ̽͌͋̿̿ ̄̔͂̓́̔ͭ̿̃̚͡͝҉̸̪̗̮͉̱̙̘̙̻͔̦͚̝̳ ̛̛̙͖͇̹̬̤͇͍̘͖͙̪̣͔͕̘͍̅̒̽ͤͤ̆͋͆ͩͥ̄̈ͦ̚͘͞ ̒̎ͣ̊ͮͭͫ̌͛̽ͭͮ̚͡͏̴҉͏̣͚̥̻͕̺̮̱͚͇̮̹̳͉̭͔ͅͅ ̫̥͎͓̦̘̳̤̱̮̻̰̲̅ͣ̇̏̈̄ͦ͛ͣ̆ͦ̎̉̀̓̏ ̨̢̛͓͇̲̖ͮ̇͌ͧͭͭͬͮ̂͊̄̏̑̒̊̄̉͆ͮ̊͆̆̅̿͋̑͋̃̽ͫͧ̇͗͜͡͝͡͏͕͔͉͍ ̶̨̢͈̲̯̪̘͍̝̫̝̖͖̖͉̯͎͕̞̃̈ͥ̍̄̉͆ͮ̊͆̆̅̿͋̑͋̃̽ͫͧ̇͗͘͢͜͏͕͔͉͍ ̶̨̢͈̲̯̪̘͍̝̫̝̖͖̖͉̯͎͕̞̃̈ͥ̍̄̉͆ͮ̊͆̆̅̿͋̑͋̃̽ͫͧ̇͗͘͢͜͏͕͔͉͍ ̶̨̢͈̲̯̪̘͍̝̫̝̖͖̖͉̯͎͕̞̃̈ͥ̍̄̉͆ͮ̊͆̆̅̿͋̑͋̃̽ͫͧ̇͗͘͢͜͏͕͔͉͍ ̶̨̢͈̲̯̪̘͍̝̫̝̖͖̖͉̯͎͕̞̃̈ͥ̍̄̉͆ͮ̊͆̆̅̿͋̑͋̃̽ͫͧ̇͗͘͢͜͏͕͔͉͍ ̶̨̢͈̲̯̪̘͍̝̫̝̖͖̖͉̯͎͕̞̃̈ͥ̍̄̉͆ͮ̊͆̆̅̿͋̑͋̃̽ͫͧ̇͗͘͢͜͏͕͔͉͍ ̶̨̢͈̲̯̪̘͍̝̫̝̖͖̖͉̯͎͕̞̃̈ͥ̍̄̉͆ͮ̊͆̆̅̿͋̑͋̃̽ͫͧ̇͗͘͢͜͏͕͔͉͍ ̶͈̲̯̪̘͍̝̫̝̖͖̖͉̯͎͕̞̃̈ͥ̍͘͢ ̩̟̖͎͙̝ͅ ̹̳̱̲̠̻̗͎̻ͅ ̼̻͎͓̟̼͉̻̮̮̮͕̣͔͖̺̳̬̙ ̝̲̦͈̜̯̪̯͇̱̪̹̫̯̦̲͙ ̹̝͉͍̪̞̞̬̰̩̥̞̦̪̰̣̙͕ ͖̻̠̰̬͕̟̘̹̺̯͓̤̞̲̬̘͔ ̮̮̙̪͕͕̺ ̮͚̳͇̟̥̲ ̱͚̥̣̳̠ ͖̭̫̞̟̝͙̠͕̙͉̰͎̫̼̺ ̳̻͚̣̜̮̟̫͉̞̜̜͚̪̭̺ ͓͍̦̘̖͓͙̫ ͚̲̗̹͔͎̱͚͙͈̱̖ ͙̱̘̳͈̩͇̖͔ ̟͈̹̩̫̯̘͚̺

̨̢̄̉͆ͮ̊͆̆̅̿͋̑͋̃̽ͫͧ̇͗͜͏͕͔͉͍ ̶͈̲̯̪̘͍̝̫̝̖͖̖͉̯͎͕̞̃̈ͥ̍͘͢ ̾̈̂͗̎͆ ͆̎̐ͩ͒͆ͩ͐ͩͧ̏ ̃̌̊̆̃̂͊͐̀

 

̨̢̄̉͆ͮ̊͆̆̅̿͋̑͋̃̽ͫͧ̇͗͜͏͕͔͉͍ ̶͈̲̯̪̘͍̝̫̝̖͖̖͉̯͎͕̞̃̈ͥ̍͘͢ ̛̛̙͖͇̹̬̤͇͍̘͖͙̪̣͔͕̘͍̅̒̽ͤͤ̆͋͆ͩͥ̄̈ͦ̚͘͞ ̒̎ͣ̊ͮͭͫ̌͛̽ͭͮ̚͡͏̴҉͏̣͚̥̻͕̺̮̱͚͇̮̹̳͉̭͔ͅͅ ̨̢̄̉͆ͮ̊͆̆̅̿͋̑͋̃̽ͫͧ̇͗͜͏͕͔͉͍ ̶͈̲̯̪̘͍̝̫̝̖͖̖͉̯͎͕̞̃̈ͥ̍͘͢ '̶̅̈́̈́ͭ̍ͩͩͪ̏ͩ̎̒̎͆̂̕'̈́̄̀͗ͨ̓̏͛̕͡'̧ͪͮ̊͂̒̾̒̾ͮͫ̿̄ͦ͘͞'ͥͫ͐͗ͥͪ̈́̿̏̅͜͢'̶̇̋͌ͤͦ͆͑̃͟'ͥͭͤ͐ͫ̏̌̏̑ͤ͟'̾͐ͯ̃͐ͬ͂ͪͤ͢͡'̸ͯ͑͌̄̇̀͋͋͜'̴̷ͨ̂̃̆҉'̵ͨ͗ͤ̾́̃̈́͑̆̅ͯ͠'̵̡͗̋̄̀̓̏͒̔̿̆҉҉̪̳̹͈͚͕̭͙̘̺͞ ̡̮̤͍͇̠͕̥͚̗͎̲͇͓̤̕'̢̛ͨͤ͐ͧ͂̂̆̒̇ͮ̅ͩ͆̂͋'̸͑̓̅̀ͦ̄͊̿͒́͜͠'̾̈̓͑̆̾͆ͦ̍̊ͯͩ͢҉̵̧'̡ͨ̐͛̍̅ͥ̈́̏̎͒̓̈̕͝'̵̷̔̈́̆̓ͦ̓̑͆ͥ̑̐̔ͩͤ̇̌̚̕͏̷'̌̈́̄̔̾͊̌̚'̴̸̛̍ͬ̈̾͐ͯͫ̽͌͆͑͛̉͊̿̊ͨ̚'̃̉̔ͪ͌ͧ͗̌ͯ̽̋̓̾͟͡҉̨'̨̓̎̍̽ͬ͋̊̂̐͒͟҉̨'̴̪̳̹͈͚͕̭͙̘̺̄̆̃͐̂͒ͦͯͨ̄͛́͌̐ͨ̉͐͑͡͝͞ ̡̮̤͍͇̠͕̥͚̗͎̲͇͓̤̕'̴̛ͮͪ̇̉͋͆ͪͬ͑ͥͭ͋̀͆̏ͤ̍͡'̨̨͊̽̌̾̑͐ͬ̒̌̽̾ͧ̓ͪ̏ͪ̚͡͞'̵̐̃̌̽ͦ͂ͧ̋͐̒̎ͦͨ͊̎̎͒̃͆͟'̨̆ͩ̃͑̋̌͆̄ͦͭ̿̏̎̌͊̽̎͊͡҉'̷̛̏̍͐͋ͩͨͯ̈́͊̄ͤ̋͊'̡ͤ̏͂̀͗̈̑̏̕͠

Sorry, the universe is very bad with jokes. ̛̛̙͖͇̹̬̤͇͍̘͖͙̪̣͔͕̘͍̅̒̽ͤͤ̆͋͆ͩͥ̄̈ͦ̚͘͞ ̒̎ͣ̊ͮͭͫ̌͛̽ͭͮ̚͡͏̴҉͏̣͚̥̻͕̺̮̱͚͇̮̹̳͉̭͔ͅͅ ̷̢͢ ̵̴͢ ̴̢͢͜ ̵̛ ̷̷̧ ̨ ͢͜ ̸͏̪̳̹͈͚͕̭͙̘̺͞ ̡̮̤͍͇̠͕̥͚̗͎̲͇͓̤̕

̾̈̂͗̎͆ ͆̎̐ͩ͒͆ͩ͐ͩͧ̏ ̃̌̊̆̃̂͊͐̀

Let’s try again.

 

Death waits in a bookshop. It waits with a boy. They are not holding hands, but one of them would like to. Three guesses who. No. No. Sorry, that is also incorrect. You see, it’s a trick question. Can’t say why. Just is.

 

Let’s try again.

 

In the bookshop, while the world outside wavers listless, a monochrome blight unto itself, Death tarries, with a boy who is also tarrying, and a Dog, too, but animals perceive time differently, so he doesn’t quite count. Not the seconds. Not the minutes. Not the hour since the angel and demon departed. Death does. The boy does, ~~tarries~~ tallies them by the cricks that crawl up his spine, behind his knees, as he fails to move from beside his friend. Strange how quickly he’s taken to the spectre’s companionship, how the accusations have turned on their tides. Desperate fucking times, as it were.

 

 _WOULD YOU…_ Death wracks Its skull for small talk. They’re still so bad at it.

 

 _TEA_? That’s what the angel did, and Adam liked it well enough.

 

“Oh?” The boy looks up. His eyes are only pupil for what he has seen. “Oh. No thanks. M’full.”

 

Of what, the spectre might ask. The universe and its punchlines? The bruise of them? The soiled, stuck blood from the puncture wound just witnessed? You weren’t supposed to look, Prince. You should not have seen Them go. You know that, but I let you, anyway. What did you see? What did _you_ see.

 

 _OH_ … _OKAY_.

 

And they keep. Standing. Sitting. Snuffling, in Dog’s case, but he’s an expert of doing nothing at all for as long as he likes, and although he likes approximately _none_ of this, he can still perform admirably the conditions of his reality. It’s his master’s he worries about, but there’s only the snuffling for it, and he will do so until his nose dries to dust. 

 

And they keep. And they keep. Until, finally, at tedious length, Adam sighs and stretches and says, “How long s’it gonna take?”

 

 _I COULD NOT SAY_.

 

“Can’t or won’t?” Cheekily.

 

It does not say anything for that.

 

“Well…” Adam clambers to his feet, hands latched to his hips, like he might offer the spectre’s crypticisms a good scolding. “Guess we better find somethin’ t’do.”

 

He loosens the reprimand of his hands into his pockets, hanging them there by the thumbs, and rocks from foot to foot.

 

“Good thing I like reading,” he says. 

 

The books around him chuckle, infected back to a semblance of life by his presence, the wit of his tenacity. 

 

He doesn’t hear them, of course, but Death does.  

 

 _HOW PERFECT WE ARE HERE, THEN,_ It says over their giggling epilogues.

 

Adam laughs, too, a puff of air through the nose, “Yeah, that’s what I meant.”

 

 _AH_ … 

 

“D’you read? Er - have a favorite book?”

 

At Death’s amused huff, Adam goes red to his ears.

 

“Sorry, stupid question.”

 

 _YOU ASSUME I DO NOT READ_?

 

“Do not or cannot,” the boy grins through his embarrassment, and Death throws another smile into the Place. Maybe the angel and demon will stumble upon it when they need an occasion of uplifting.

 

“I’unno,” continues Adam. “Don’t really think about you much. Din’t think you really existed.”

 

_THAT IS SILLY._

 

“Yeah, I know.”

 

 _BUT TO ANSWER YOUR QUESTIONS,_ the spectre says, _YES AND NO. AND NO._

 

Adam blinks. Maths may not be his strong suit, and he certainly will never view his teacher in the same light after this rot gets sorted, but he only asked the two. 

 

 _I DO NOT READ IN THE WAY YOU ARE ACCUSTOMED,_ Death clarifies. _I - ER - ASSIMILATE, AS IT WERE._

 

“What like,” Adam mimes explosions with his hands, fingers spanning out on either side of his head, “just absorb it?”

 

_SOMETHING LIKE THAT. CREATION FASCINATES ME. I AM ALWAYS STILL THE RESULT, SO I TAKE IT UPON MYSELF TO CURATE WHAT IS LOST._

 

“So you know everything?”

 

_HAVE WE NOT DISCUSSED THIS, ALREADY?_

 

“No I mean, like…” Adam’s face scrunches up, deep in thought. Then, with a put on scholarly air, he recites: “What’s a pervading motif in Willa Cather’s _My Antonia_?”

 

It is Death’s turn to wrinkle Its expression, but It answers promptly:

 

_WELL, GIVEN THE SOCIOPOLITICAL CLIMATE OF THE UNITED STATES AT THE TIME, I THINK PERHAPS THE MOST RELEVANT THEME IS THE JUXTAPOSITION OF LAND VERSUS PERSONHOOD. OF COURSE, THERE ARE MORE RACIAL IMPLICATIONS, BUT WITH THE NARRATIVE EMPHASIS ON THE RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN ANTONIA AND -_

 

Death stops, snapping Its jaw shut around a wry chuckle.

 

 _ARE YOU USING ME FOR A BOOK REPORT, ADAM_?

 

The boy grins, “Listen, ‘unno about you, but I’m still gonna have school t’get back to.”

 

 _AND HOW EXACTLY WOULD YOU PLAN TO CITE ME_ ? _YOU ARE HARDLY ELOQUENT ENOUGH FOR PLAGIARISM._

 

“Hey!” Adam pouts severely in the hopes it will mask the fact he doesn’t quite remember what eloquent means. 

 

Abruptly, he thinks of Pepper, and a decided war breaks out in his heart, one that would like to envision her and Death going head to head with the respective dictionaries they’ve swallowed. The other cruelly recalls him to the suffering she must be enduring, and Brain, too. Wensleydale. Mum. Dad. Everyone.

 

Immediately, he deflates. Death returns to his side in a blink.

 

 _ARE YOU ALRIGHT_?

 

Adam, thinking many things, stumbles once more upon an inconsistency, of what was said in the forest and then contradicted here in the shop.

 

“You said you din’t know.”

 

 _PARDON_ ? Death peers down at him. His eyes no longer eclipse themselves. He is still just a boy.

“Where mum and my friends are,” the boy says. “You told me you din’t know, but you lied. Th’whole time, you knew. That they were in this - that place - _thing_ , but you said before you din’t know.”

 

He pleads with that gaze, and where anger might be, instead disappointment sours the youth of his face.

“Why’d you lie t’me?”

 

 Itself now the corkboard butterfly, Death winces. Slowly, Adam drives in each pin.

 

 _YOU_ … _ARE RATHER TOO KEEN SOMETIMES_.

 

Adam does not concede.

 

“Yeah, an’ you _lied_.”

 

 _I… TOLD YOU,_ Death tells again, _I AM BOUND BY GREATER INFLUENCES. I DID NOT KNOW THEN. I STILL DO NOT. THERE IS NOTHING EXACT OF THIS. YES, I KNEW OF THE FORMS, BUT THAT WAS NEVER FOR YOU TO CONCERN YOURSELF WITH._

 

“So…” Adam mulls this over, chews it down, a bitter bite of licorice. He thinks of the sherbet he’s saving for Brian. 

 

“You… knew but you didn’t?”

 

Death, relieved, answers honestly, _NOT SPECIFICALLY, NO. I KNOW OF WHAT IS IN THAT PLACE, BUT NOT WHERE. ONLY THE ANGEL AND DEMON MAY DISCOVER THAT._

 

Adam pinches shut his eyes, scrubbing furiously at his nose with the back of his hand.

 

“This’s making my head hurt.”

 

 _AS I SAID,_ Death repeats, _THIS IS NOT FOR YOU._

 

“But if I could help?”

 

Death shakes Its head, _YOU HAVE ENDURED ENOUGH._

 

Adam frowns, “But I _want_ to.”

 

 _ADAM,_ the spectre reels on him, now, unhides the hands that ache to be filled with flesh and curls them around shoulders. Jagged-jut. The familiarity ravages them both.

 

 _IT IS YOUR DUTY TO BREATH INTO THE SHADOWS OF THIS WORLD_ , says this shadow of every world. _THERE IS YET A SPARK, AND SOON IT WILL BURN AGAIN, BUT NOW IT ONLY SMOLDERS. YOU ARE WHAT REMAINS OF IT, THE ASH OF IT. YOU MUST STAY HERE, AND YOU MUST LIVE. FOR EVERYONE, YOU MUST._

 

Softly, pleading, “Can’t I do anything else?”

 

Silent, ragged, Death wagers a step toward and then away from the boy, limping Itself to the nearest bookshelf and plucking a weathered tome. _Monachopsis_ , reads the title, with no evidence of an author. Between its pages sits a nervous prose. Death knows it well - by heart, in fact, if It had one. It extends Its hand, the one around the book.

 

 _I HAVE NO FAVORITES,_ It says, _BUT SOME I HOLD MORE PRECIOUS THAN OTHERS. THIS IS ONE OF THEM. SEE WHAT YOU MAKE OF IT, PRINCE._

 

It is not an answer. Decidedly, it is not, but Adam accepts it, anyway, and the book, too, his fingers cherishing its delicate heft. 

 

The transaction completed, Death unburdens Itself into an exhausted stoop of the spine and says, _I WILL LET YOU REST, NOW. AND I WOULD LIKE TO BE ALONE, MYSELF, IF THAT IS ALRIGHT._

 

“Oh - I -” Adam does not look up from the book, for which the spectre is immensely grateful. “Yeah, okay. Um… D’you need anything?”

 

Death laughs. The sound of it remains with them both in the shop. 

 

_YOU ARE SO VERY STRANGE, ADAM YOUNG._

 

Adam frowns at the spectre, “Thanks? What’s this about, anyway.”

 

He indicates the book. 

 

 _IT IS A STORY OF UNCERTAINTY_ , answers Death. _I FIND IT HELPFUL IN SIMILAR TIMES._

 

Of what Death has to be uncertain about, well, the answer is similarly so, and offering no more of those, either, It glides away on a whisper of unknown agonies (what can be known of Death’s suffering?) leaving Adam to wonder in Its wake. Ungold, this one. Pupil-pitch. It doesn’t go far, indeed only a sparse few feet away near the door again, by War. What’s left of her. There, the spectre keeps. Standing and standing and standing, a spindled multitude of contemplations Adam cannot begin to broach. 

 

And, besides, it’s not his place. Death politely requested some space, so Adam silently slinks away, deeper into the shop, in search of a spot to cozy up in and read. Dog trots alongside him, and, with that dutiful nose of his, ferrets out an ancient chair secreted among a tower of pamphlets more moth carcass than paper. The cushion adorning it is half gone to rust for all the rank mildew gathered in its fibers, and Adam, grimacing accordingly, nudges it to the floor with his elbow. With a creak and groan of aged wood, he perches in a tangle of crossed legs and sticking out knees and arms, the chair slightly too small, but altogether more comfortable than the floor has so far proven.

 

“Want me to read aloud?” He asks Dog.

 

The animal cocks his head, laps out his tongue to soothe his parched nose, but offers nothing else. 

 

“Hmph…”

 

Of all the inanities to transpire, why couldn’t “Dog suddenly learns how to talk” have been one of them? 

 

“Well, I’ll read some first, how ‘bout, and see if it’s any good.”

 

Dog’s eyebrows jump and twitch, Adam takes it for concession and opens the book.

 

It should be said about this book - 

 

In fact, many things should be said about the book, about the curiosities of its singular publication - much like another tome, except not at all because… oh you know this already, the familiarity, we’ve said. Discourses should be had of its contents - uncanny and indeed grotesque, but only in the way that some people cannot behold the hypnotic symmetry of a lotus flower’s stigma without nausea clawing at their brainstems. Such things could be mused over like the hands that have exchanged it, thrust it away in horror, held it dear as a dying lover, or the eyes glimpsing it, puzzling hands never opening it, an angel’s included. Yes, all of these things could be said about the book, but they are not said for Adam, and so he approaches it anew, afresh with curiosity. It is only once that Death hands you Its favorite book. Well, nearly Its favorite, as it were.

 

Adam, infallibly insatiable, reads:

 

 _And up into the witherwash hills you stagger, the green and grey around you, roiling up a storm down to seasick Aberystwyth. But those are miles that you will never wander, landstuck here in_ _Llanbedr Pont Steffan. You’d left the town behind some hours ago. The journey never mattered, nor the distance, but this is not so far from your home that ever you could deny it, the beckon of the Brecons. You did try. You promised that for whoever would listen, whoever might care. In the end, there was no one. Just the call of the hills, the ochre-whisper of gorse, the gnash of hawthorne. The green and grey._

 

_And, amidst the watercolor heave: the spire of The Chimney, that standalone soldier of a house since gutted. By fire. By wind. The cause is unknown, only the result persists. The Chimney. There It looms, three hills away from you. A perilous, pire speck toward the grey of heaven, up from the grave green below. You curse Its creation into the wind, and the bricks tremble at your presence, a perverse excitement molesting their mortar. You bare your fists and teeth and bones to It, asking why why? Why do you? Why are you? Why me why me?_

 

_The Chimney shudders, a glee of sickening ripples upon Its spire, and, with graceless fluidity, It glides down from Its three-hills-away-perch._

 

_There are two hills, now, between you and the Beast, and still you scream, and demand, and cry, and carry on with your fists that could have built It._

 

_The Chimney, shiver-delight, slithers. Descends Its two-hills-between-you and, now, is one hill away._

 

_Why why why?_

 

_The Chimney. Exalting. Crawls. Crumbling brick from brick in Its wake. Racing away the green and grey, filling you, now, your eyes and nose, the shriek in your ears. Loom upon the hill, and only all for -_

 

Adam stops reading, tears scalding his vision. His trembling hands hold viciously tight upon the binding, the page, the one that shows The Chimney in Its horrific illustration, a triptych of Its approach, the lurking loom skulking closer and closer until It fills the page entire with the black silhouette of Its bricks. There is no evidence of anyone else, no third party view. Just The Chimney and _you_. Adam and the approach. 

 

“No,” he says weakly. “No.”

 

Dog perks up, his ears alert, but Adam does not reach for him. 

 

“Don’t like it,” the boy mutters, to no one, or maybe The Chimney, perhaps. To Death for exposing him to this. 

 

The urge to throw the book forms unbidden in his mind, the quick-trip scarlet of his pulse careening up the back of his neck, but something stops him. He refuses to look again at the page, at The Chimney racing _racing_ toward him, but neither does he relinquish it.

 

With commendable bravery, with remarkable restraint, he closes the book, stands, sets it on the chair, and walks away, to find Death and demand an explanation.

 

It is there, still there, still keeping: War’s cenotaph. 

 

 _WILL YOU NOT FINISH_? It asks, not turning around, but always, bloody knowing, of course.

 

“It’s awful,” Adam whispers. “Is’not - it’s not a story.”

 

 _IT IS, ADAM._ The spectre straightens, a wisp of strength filling out Its frame. _ALTHOUGH, PERHAPS IT IS NOT YOURS._

 

Adam rubs at his burning eyes. They’re so sore, and he has so little energy left for the sorrow yet in him.

 

“No, is’not.”

 

_THEN I AM SORRY._

 

What experience Death has with apologies must be woefully little, because It sounds nothing of the sort. In fact, It sounds glad, relieved.

 

_AND PERHAPS, THEN, YOU COULD SHARE WITH ME A STORY, ONE THAT YOU CHERISH._

 

It hardly counts for small talk, but the casual tone in Death’s voice sets Dog on edge all the same, and the animal growls low in his throat. His master still does not run and hide from the Beast, so Dog holds his ground and tries not to cower.

 

“What like, tell you a story?” Says Adam. A hiccup builds from the pit in his stomach, but he bites it down.

 

_IF YOU LIKE. WE ARE IN A BOOKSHOP, AND I BELIEVE YOU HAD A HAND IN SELECTING MUCH OF ITS CURRENT STOCK._

 

In fact, Adam had completely forgotten that. Three years is an awfully long stretch of time to dull even the sharpest memories of that day at the airbase and what resulted after. 

 

“Oh,” he breathes. “Yeah…”

 

Ever intent, ever resilient, a bliss of surprise wells up inside him, bubbling through the dread in his heart: a glimmer of hope, expectatious hope.

 

“Oh!”

 

With a jolt, he turns on his heel and bolts for the nearest shelf, forgetting entirely the monstrous Chimney, mind singularly set on this burst of excitement. He tears so terrifically through the shelf that even the most forgiving of Dewy’s Decimals cringe at his unruly sifting. But a shop as extraordinary as this surely should have a similarly convoluted system, and, true to Adam’s assumptions, the shelf produces the book he wants, the one he has wanted since it was abandoned to the obscurity of his childhood. 

 

“This,” he says, half panting, mostly smiling. “This’s my favorite. I - I can’t believe -”

 

In his hands rests a charming little title: _The Witch Family_ by Eleanor Estes. Its cover boasts a cheery illustration: two witches astride a broomstick as the moon looms large and brilliant behind them. They smile merrily in their chaotic flight, and a plethora of black cats and, strangely enough, a bumblebee cling to the broom’s handle. Adam grins, full as the moon’s glow illuminating their mischief.

 

“Mum read it t’me when I was a kid,” he explains, “’cept it - it got lost, an’ I could only remember the glass hill and easter bunnies that painted rocks t’look like eggs so the Old Witch couldn’t eat them.”

 

 _HOW… VERY CURIOUS_ , Death hums.

 

“It’s good,” insists Adam, and Death brandishes Its hands in defense.

 

_I DO NOT DOUBT THAT IT IS._

 

Adam eyes Death warily, searching out tells of insincerity, but it’s a fruitless task when the spectre is ninety percent robe. 

 

“Well, I’m gonna read it. An’ you can listen if you want, it’s’a lot nicer than - than _that_ ,” Adam throws a nervous glance over his shoulder, in the direction of the hidden chair and its singular occupant: that gruesome Chimney.

 

“F’not, okay whatever,” the boy valiantly maintains the calm of his voice despite the wobble building in the back of his throat, one borne of such faultless delight so easily disappointed. “But - but I think you’d really like it.”

 

With that, he makes to leave, maybe head upstairs and see if Aziraphale hasn’t managed to leave a couch or armchair.

 

_I BELIEVE THERE IS A SOFA JUST OVER THERE, ADAM._

 

The boy halts mid-stride and looks back to see Death’s hand outstretched and pointing.

 

_I WOULD PREFER TO STAND, THOUGH, IF THAT IS ALRIGHT._

 

“Oh?” Adam blinks, a cling of tears at the corners of his eyes letting go. “Oh… yeah, yeah! Yeah, okay!”

 

He half trips over himself in his haste to scurry around the shelves and find the sofa. It’s a terribly old thing and yet devilishly soft in the downy give of its cushions. Kicking off his wellies, he readily sinks into it. Dog spares as little deliberation in clambering his own mud streaked self onto the antique upholstery, delighting in the scolding that will never come from his master. 

 

“Sure you don’t wanna sit?” Adam pats the last remaining inches of cushion that couldn’t hope to accommodate the spectre. “S’real comfy.”

 

Death chuckles and shakes Its head, offering naught but another comment of, _SO STRANGE_ , before stationing Itself politely off to the right, huddling in the creaking corner of two shelves. It folds Its hands neatly in front of Its robes so, at the very least, looks less like a sentient mound of tattered rags.

 

 _JUST READ, ADAM,_ It says. _YOU HAVE PIQUED MY CURIOSITY TERRIBLY._

 

The words travel wrly from the spectre’s inscrutable, spire-self, and Adam beams. 

 

“Okay.”

 

Having a go at that ever hackneyed ritual of emphasis, the boy clears his throat, gives a little wiggle as he straightens his back (only to promptly slouch again) and opens the book with an awe to rival every instance the resident angel has ever so much as picked up one of his tomes. 

 

Satisfied and absolutely buzzing, Adam begins: 

 

 _One day, Old Witch, the head witch of all the witches_ … he pauses here, draws out the tension... _Was banished_!

 

He looks up, mouth already aching with the implacable smile there. 

 

And he _swears_ he can see Death smiling back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Things:
> 
> 1\. Monachopsis is another non-word nicked from the [Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows](https://www.dictionaryofobscuresorrows.com/) which I’d suggest having a look at, it’s really a fantastic archive.
> 
> 2\. The story contained within the book^ is a variation on reality, my terrible anxieties about brutalist architecture, and a subsequent novel I’m developing in response to both. There is an actual chimney in the hills of Lampeter Wales (Llanbedr Pont Steffan) that I happened upon while exploring a stone age hill fort in the unrelenting Welsh fog. It was one of the eeriest things I’d ever seen, just standing there with no sign of the house that might have once existed around it, and I couldn’t help imagining it rushing over the hills toward me. I tamed it a bit from how severely uncanny I want the novel to be, so make of the symbolism what you will.
> 
> 3\. The Witch Family is, in fact, a real book, and again I'm projecting onto Adam because it was one of my favorite stories when I was like 6 years old, and somehow it just faded to memory and I only found it again after a feverish afternoon of google searches on obscure book forums from the early 2000s. Yes, it's a children's story and written as one, but it's absolutely brilliant and beautiful and the imagination in it is stunning. I really recommend getting your hands on a copy, the image of the glass hill is the one thing that remained with me my whole life and kept me determined to find the book again. It's also inspired another novel, but that's another literary-self-insert for a different time


	8. what, immortal? hand or eye?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well adhd nerfed me lads, I have no interest in good omens anymore lol, but I thought it a massive waste to let the 22k I'd written over september go to waste, so I'm just gonna throw it here. sorry to be such a disappointment, but this was never gonna amount for much with any kind of audience, so it's really w/e. you've no obligation to read any of these additional chapters, posting them is just for my own sense of closure. if you happen to read these, mind any errors, there's probably some nonsense notes I made while writing and i have no interest in reading these for an umpteenth time, so there's probably some gibberish idek. yee and dare i saw haw

_Remember this, A̠̣̹̰̘̖͍̭̦͉̠̫̥͇_ **_m͐̓ͪ̄̓̾_ ** _n͍͎̻̞͕͈͕̤͎_ **_y̓ͪ̓͛̐͛̐_ ** _g̫̻̰̻̗̗̼ͅ_ **_d̂̆ͬͩ́̄ͫ_ ** _e̪̭̰̹̼͔̘̭̝̯̙̮̹͍̯͈̪_ **_ẽ̈́͆̎ͨ̽́̽̉̅ͥͮ̔̌ͥ_ ** _l̯͕̥̼͚̫̬_ **_a̎͗̓ͧͯͭ̏ͥ̇rͧ͛ͧ̓̓͆ͬ̇́̏͂ͦ̓ͦ_ ** **.** _Remember what we saw, it’s the only way back. Remember how it feels. The there-and-not. Remember Death and me. Remember back those millennia. On the wall, remember? Where I first saw you and we set ourselves into fate. Remember before that? Do you? Before it all? Do you remember what we were before? Oh_ **_H̫̜̗̬̯e͓͓̖̰̰̲̦_ ** _Hͥ̈́ͬͭͦ́̈́ͪ̔_ **_a̩͎̮̟_ ** _ë̋̑͌ͮ̊̈́ͤ̆̀̈͑͌͂̌_ **_v̞̩͇͇̪͙̣͓͈͖͍̙͕̗̭̥͕͍̖_ ** _l̃̓̋̇̽̐̒̃̋̍̓͐͌͌̅̄ͩ̋ͬ_ **_e̺͓͖̯_ ** _l͂͆̄̌̐̈_ **_n̤̺̣̣̣̲̗̬͕̩̰_ ** _you have to. I can’t lose you. Please hold on. Please I-_

 

_l̨̛͚̜͇͍̞̞̰̪̖̲͂̽͐̅ͯ̑ͮ̄ͦͩ̉̕͜o̧̧̥͈̦̝̺̣̘̙͇͔͂͂ͭ͊̔ͪ̑ͬ̋̄̔̆̎̋ͬ̃̄̿ͬ͟͝͡v̨̛̮͖̹̜́͗͐̒̉̓̓̌̌͘͢͢e̷̼̰̗͔̟̪͈͚̥̗͒̂́̂ͣ̔̆̐̿ͥ̈́̄̔͂͋̑͘͜͡͞ ̶̸̭̮̲̼̖̳̜̠̦͛̑͒ͫ̾̒ͣͩ͛̌̒͜͞ỵ̵̸̩̖̳̓̅̏̒ͤͪͩ͌́͜͢o̝͖̜͚̫͚͙̜̣̝̪̹̟͍̘̔̄̈́̓̿ͮ͢͢u̙̹̲̎̉̄̃̋̕͢ ̨̛͙̝̙͈̳̤͕̭̬̬̮̭̝̫͖̣ͣ͑̎̽̔ͣͣ̈̅ͣȋ̎̓ͫ̄̔ͧ͛̋ͬ̃ͬͬ҉̧̧̺̰̦̼̘͎̻̟͖̯̹̘͖͉̗̬̯͠f̊̏̿ͣ̅̿̅̓̉̈́̔̅͌̿ͣͤ̄҉̷͏͉̗̮̰͚̹͉͙̥͚̪̜̘ ̧͈̝̣̮̟̱̣̙̦̆͆ͯ͐̊̂͗ͯ̐͐ţ̴͛̉ͫ̎̅̉ͥ̑͐͑̏ͮ͂̊͛ͮ͑ͮ̕͢҉͔͚̦̱̬̼̖̟̱̞̟̤̱̱̤̝͓h̷̘͙̯̗̭͉̖̥̹̣͓̜͇̹̲̩̃͊̂̋ͤͪ̋ͣ̎̂́͂̔̆͟͝͠ī̴̃̎̏ͯ͂̃ͫͭ҉̯̗̮̦̺̯̜̠̙̮̺̪̩͢s̻̯̖͈̙͇͋̓͋ͭ̄͜͞͡ ̵̸̜͎̺̋͆̾͋̐̆̐ͮ̔̐ͮ̽ͪ̀͡͡i̵̡͎̺̮͍ͯ̃̿̿̂̈́͑ͬṣ͚̻̲̠͉ͬ̋̊̈́͌̌ͯͤ͋͘͟͡ ̡̜̻͓͉͔̩̖͈̉̋̍̄͡i̴̼͎̗̮̣͇̤͈ͯ̒͌ͩ̐͑͌͐̄̒ͪ̈́ͯ̏̐̏̈̆͟ͅt̵̛̜̼͇̣̪̞̯̣͈̟̱͚̰̀̓͊̍̿̒ͩ̑͘ͅ ̴̩̥̹̺̤̹͕̫̹̠̼̪͖̽ͥ̽̿̀̅ͧͨ͜į̤̺̹͚ͤ̈͗͂̉ͭͤ͡ͅf̸͓̺̩̗̮̱̘̦̹͙̤̫̄̐ͣ͒͜ ̸̡͚̳͖̹̖̺̜̜̭̋̾̐͊̐͑ͮ̈̒̿̃ͩ̏͟ť̡ͦ̑̆̄ͦ̾̓ͥ̾͋̾́ͥ͊ͤ͂ͤͣ҉͏̧̣̱̙̦̞̝͍̬̤̘͞h̶̛̭̬̭͎͔̫̝ͫ͌̓ͤ̓̀ͪ̽ͮͫͪ̀̆̏ͤ͗̀ï͆̈́̿ͪ͗̓̍ͪ̍ͫ̇͠͏̛̟̜̱͙̭̤̟̮͓̱͎͡ͅͅs͂ͤͭ̉̈̎̍ͨ̄͆̌͐͗̓͊̒͒̈́̉҉̸̦͈͖̬̬̘ ̶̷̵̢̛͕̯͕̞͔̞̥ͯ̀̇͑ͮͭͮ̅̓͛i̡̯͉͕̗̥͇̻̓̒̃ͮ̕͜͝s̸̵̳̖̤̖̥̦̮̙͚̤̯̭̠̤̮̩̝ͥ̄ͮ̆̇͗͝͡ ̶̢̠̭͉̼̬̹̼ͯ̑̋́ͧ̿̾͌ͯ̊͒͆̈́ͭ̉̚̕͟tͪͯ̈́ͬ̉ͭ̈́ͭͣ̉̚҉̸̡̜̗̫̙̥̜̱͚͉͎̤̩͍̼̜͘͢h̸̡̯̼͉̱̘͍̫̪̼̮̼͔̤̮̗̘̘̻ͣ̑͐̽̄̎̄̈̋̀ͮ͗ͮ̄̐̀̑͌̕ͅè̸͗ͨ̊̈́̈́͆͐ͩ҉̧̛͕͎̦͇͈̞̦̝̗͕̝͘ͅ ͉̖̰̞͑ͭ̂̅̓̉ͮ̽̍͘͟ļ͎͕̝͎̬̮̩̻͆́̌ͯ̓ͤ́̾́ͤͪ͜ȁ̸̵̬̳̣͓̺̟̭̫̩̠͈̙ͦͩ̅̑ͫ͂̑ͪ͑ͫ͠s̵̢̤̰̣̟͉̬͙̘̹̟̺͉̩ͯ͒̉̓͂ͯͩ̄̚͜͡ͅt̔̊̑ͣ̌̈́́ͤ̀ͫͤ̓̚҉̢̛̬̞͈̻̺͎͈̫̫̠̠̕ ̡̪̪̱͉͕̩̰̜̻̖̟̫̲̘̱̳̄͂ͬ͋͟͟͡o̵̧̲̱͎͚̣̩̤̺̗͕̙̭̞̤͍̲̯͊͋͑͛̃ͭ́̇ͪͅf͊̑̾͆͞͏̻͎̭͙ ̵̷̫͉̟̝͓̜̘̘̺̪ͣͥ̆ͩͪ͛̇͒̀̎ͭ͐ͥ͗͑ͦͧu͓̞̼͉̮̙̠͙̱̎̿̈́ͨͥ̔ͨ̑ͦ͛̇͗̆ͪ͢͜š̴̝̗͚̮͋̾̽ͫ̆̓ͬ̿̇ͩ̊̏ͯ͒ͩͫ͞͡ ̱̘̮̯̼͓̰ͫ̒ͯ̿͒ͪ̓͢͡͡k̵̴͚̥̱̣̫̖̯͈ͦ̽̈͐̈́ͦ͡n̸̴̤̫̮̳̞͔̼̖̗̥̞̝̻͗͗ͤ̓̿̌͑̿͌̔͂ͮ̒̃̉ͤ͞ͅo̷̡̤͔̫̙̬͑͆ͭ͋̅ͪ̎̑ͭͩ͋͝ẇ̸̧͉̻͙̮͍̠͚͓͓͓̬̱̟ͯͩ̓̑̊͊̊̾̏̍͗̃̎ͣ͆ͣ ̸͍͎̣̙̫͖̼͖͎͕̘͎̬̤̜̖̘̓̈́̆ͧ̀ͣͦ͟ͅẗ̸̤͇̙̜̦͉̩͍́̋̑̆ͩ̍ͣ̓̐̏ͬͯ̃͆̊̃̉̚͘̕͟h̡̃̇ͨ̀̈̎̅͏͍̟͉̗̹͕̻͖̗a̴̡̝̱͍̱͙͇̒̽͂ͩ̊ͪͧ͜t̨͉̤̖̠̦̤͉̣̹͑ͥ̔̎̈ͨ͑̽̌ͭͫ͆̈ͫ̽ͦ͋ͨ̚͜ͅ ̧͉̘̜͉̝̮̯͖̠͈͓͚͔͚̔̋͑ͫ̇̽ͬͮ̇́ͮͮ̽̔͘͢͜ͅͅi̢̧͉̮̠̲͍̣̼͓͇̹̜ͣ̑̈͛͆ͧ͑̍̍ͯ̋́ͫ͊ͫ͑ͤ͐̚ͅͅ ̶͓̝̭̩̮̲̝̬̟͎͔͚̻̑̊̌̿̏͗̄̅̍͟͝ͅl̢̔ͥ̈ͪͧ̊̌͗ͯ̄ͣ̋͏̼̻̪̯͚̖̲̪̳̭͇̲͓͍̯͢ö̶̢̯̝͍̯̪̳̬̖̱̤́̉̑̓̃̾̔̈͂̇͗ͤͦ̐ͮ̎̄̓͂͜v̢̧̰̮̫͎͍͎̬̣̺̱͚͚͔͆ͧͪ̀̾̀ͯ̆̄ͨ̑e̎̎͒̂̏̂͊ͭ͑̿̿́̿ͪͩ̿̃̈́͢͡҉͓͖̠͍͎̰̳̝̙̱̮̼̬͎͟ͅͅ ̧̯̜̮̞̻̞̼̝̦̥̊ͤ̉ͮ̊͒͆ͭ̃̎̈͠ÿ̶̸̡͓̰̙̩̞̟͖̪͙̥ͮͩ̈͌ͥ͋͑͑͛ͪ̔̉̃̾̔̅̎ͩơ̵̸͕̝̰̲͈̤̪̮̪̥ͯ̆ͧͫͫ̆̇̅ͫ͑͂͛ͯ͊̚̚ư̷̲̯͍͚̲̜͕̰̠̗͈͓̞̪͕̲̌̌ͯ̌͆̌͆́ͤ̑͐̔̑̊̓͋ ̦͇̭̗̜̙̩͚͙̖̜ͯ̔̆͋̾͛ͣ̅̋̈͊̒ͣͥ͑̚͡y̴̼͈̳̰̦̻͍͓̩̼̫̩͚̤͉̦̳̮ͧ͂ͬ̐̾ͯͯͦ́̑̑ͣͪͩͤ͛̂̚͢͠o̡̘̳͍͕̳͔̝͈͕͆͊̾͛ͤ͊ͧ̉̓̑̕ư̴̈̐́ͥ͑͊͌̄ͨͦ͊ͤ̄ͭ̔͗͘͏̜̜͎̬̰̞ ̡͛ͩ́ͨ͋ͭ͛̿̎ͥ҉̨̧͚͕̜͕h̵̸͓̞̖̬̥̟̜̙̩̫͍̪̺̲͓ͪͪ͐ͪ̒ͧͤ̏ͫͩͬ̊̌̒̐̅̋̕͠a̵̡͖̩̥̬̠̺̺̰͚̪̝͍̜͋ͧ̅̔̌͂̈̾͒̐̅ͪͭ̈̉̈́̕v̵̵̧̧̘̣̭̼̼̼̯͔͉̜̗̲̜̀͋͒ͯͧ̌͗̀͐͒͊̿͑̒̍̕e̶̴̢̖̰̫̤̯͚͓̯̰̟̠̮͔͖̾͗̅ͯ̕ ̸͉͓̳̙̫͇̜̘͙̩͍͗̒́̽͑̽̍̿ͤͨͧͧ͛ͨṫ̨̨̓͋ͨͣ̽̈ͩͩͭ́ͪͬ̍̍ͥ̑̃͜͏͍͓͚̣͍̜̞o͔̪̼̘̥͍̗̮͖ͪ̍ͯ̈̈͘͝͝ ̴̧̛̣͓͈̺͎̳̝̬̪̞̐̅ͫ̋͐͋̎̓̿̊ͦ̓̑͞k͒ͤ͆ͥ̓͑̾ͥ̈́͊ͪ̀̓͏̖̱͉̟̝̦̞̳͈̠̘̯̲͚̺͉͔ͅn̵̶̡̡̧͍̘̦̫̠̟̠̪̥ͬͪ̂͒̒͒͋͂͆ǫ̴̸̢̙̙͇̻̱̱̝͖͍͂ͦ̓ͪ̑̇̏̔ͤ͠w̶̆̓ͭ̆҉̖̪̠̟̩̗̬̠̣͉͕͟ͅ ̡̛͑ͩ̂̒͋ͯ͗̿̃̈́̋͑̂̆̏͌͋̇͜͏̬̙͙̭͇̲͔̖̳͕͎̙̭̭y̵̶̧̞̙̝̰͎͓͓̜̲̲̦̖͖̣̲̹͔̤͚͑̿̓ͮ͘͟o̜̺̥̩̬̞͕̦̞ͪ͂͂̓͢͝͝u̘̜̱̹̲̲͖̼͖̫̗̪͈̪̗̜̇ͩͨ̌̎̿̽ͭͧͯ͑̃̇̾̆̕͜v̨̢̳̩̩̯͙̠͍̲̙͚͇̲̈ͪ̔̂̃̌̂̐̇͐͂ͦ̍͟͟e̵͈̖̳̱̘̯̠̥͇̩̭̻̫̜̼͉̼͕͓̐ͨ̽͛̈́͘ ̴̠̗̹̠̂́̓ͮ͊̓̂ͧ̐̈́̽̌͢ͅa̜̜̺̳̟͙̟̤̠̾ͫ̿͊ͣͯͯ͘͜l̷͈͇͉͚͉̙͂̆̅͛ͫ̒͂ͩͮͦ͠ͅw͇̜̦̻̅͌͆ͥ̈́ͣ̂̿ͨ͂͊̇̆̚͠͞a̶̧̹̥̱͔̰̠̫̲̭̍̆̂̌̀̃̇̌̓́̆͒͋̕y̶̴̞̘̤͎̗̖̖̞͍̥̋ͨ̋̆͊ͮͪ̉̓̄͐͐̌͜͢ŝ̶̸̙̯̥̬̞̠͂̂́́ͣ̆̓̅̐̑ͪ̈́ͮ͂̏̏͝ ̷̡̨̭̖͓͚̦͙̬͓͍͚̫͖͕̗̻͑̏̅ͪ̅̓̋́ͭ̔͗ͨ̓̕ͅk̵̸̦̹̫͉ͥ̊̆͐̏ͣ͛͞n̷̵͙̰̹͕͔̠͚̣̭̫̣͉̹̫͗ͧ͑ͩͪ̆̐͋ͨ͢͞ͅͅő̓ͦ̈́͗͋ͪ͗̌͊̿͋̄̚̚͏̡͠҉̵͉̻͎̤̘̪̗̪̠̫̼w̢̛͎̬̼͈̲͂̓ͧ́ͯ͗̾̈́̏͟n̴̞̮̥̱̮͇̠͉̒̾̆̉͂͊̃͌̌̒̀͊ͥ̉ͥ͗͐ͦ̕ ̡̳͈̝͔̮̹͈̦͖̖̠͓͙̗͊̃̈́͋ͩͣ̇̍̕͠w̧̠̟̝̜̩̯̬͓̮̐̅ͧ̚͠͞ę̧̲͇͎̪̤̰͍̝͈͍̜̥̣͇ͮ̽ͦ͂̎͛͌͘͠v̢͍̫̮͍̓̋ͤ́̃̂ͭ̿̎̌͐̈̉ͤ͜͠͠e̛̟̖̱̖̪̝̯̜̪̳̞̬̰̭͖͓̝͂͊͊ͦͤͩ̆͒̿̋̅̆̒ͥ͡ ̡̱͚̜̖̦̠̮̙̦̼̘̻̠͇̘̰̼ͮ̃̿ͩͧ̄͆̂͆̈́͗͛ͥ̑͂ͮͯ͢ͅa̷ͣͧ̔ͧ͌̃ͧ͐̏ͯ̾͐̎͆̔͗҉̺̯̞̞̠l̷͙̻̣͈̻̭͈̹̟̻͙͚͓̪̓ͣ͂̈́ͧͩ̂͗̉̒̄̌̒ͥ̽ͮ͜͟ͅw̧̫̩̲̳͚͎̯͖͕̥̯̯͕̝̺̼̝̹̼ͪ̇͋ͮ̐́͗ͪa̶̢̬͙̮͎̗̗̯͑ͣ̑͐́͆͌̄͌̒ͮ͑ͅy̋ͭ̈́̉ͦ̃͗́ͧ̈́͗̈́͒͗́ͭ̚͏̩̫͖͓͟͠s̴̢̲̫̠̞̬͇͙̰̮̥̀̄̿̃̓̑͌ͬ̓ͭ͊ͧ͢͟ ͈͔̣̰̻ͪͫ̎͑̑͑͜͝ḱ̴̳̝͚̞̝̠̳͙̰̬̝̱̤̘̭̘̔ͨ̃̌̔͜͜n̛͙̪͉̞͎͙͕̯͍ͭ̐̔͌̎̒̀͟͞o̸̢̤͎̘͙̙̦̫̭͚̩̮̗͍̘̺̽ͥ̈̄ͨ̐͗ͬ̐͆ͯͤ́ͤ͂̅̚͝w̧̦͖̬̰̖̩͖͖̝͔̻̟̤̰̗̒̃͑̃ͥ̇̌͡n̴̊͗ͣ̒̓̏̿̐̊̂̒̓͒̌̏ͥ̽͊͋͠҉̳͚̯̠̝̠͢ ̷̢̱̩͎̗͉̗͔̩̻͕̬̻̠̘̖͆̈́̆̂̓̽ͯͣ̀ͪ̎͑͐ͭ̊̈̀ͬi̡̳͖̮͎̭̠̥̠̳̼̲̻̭ͣ̅ͯͣ̃̎ͮ͘͢ ̷̨̤͈̝̪͍͚͖̹̯͓̺̰̲̳̭̋̑͛ͪ̔ͬ̉̓̏̓l̴͖͔̗̳̼̮̜̜͓̘̜̪̹̫̺ͬ̾̌͒͡o͆̓ͧ̓̆͡҉̸͖̖̤̼͡vͪͤͨ̌̊͑̏̆ͬ̉̅҉͏̧͚̼͙̰͖̜̩̼͍͜e̷̺̥͙̗͚̘̺͇̳͔̠ͦ̀͛ͣ̄̎̐̈͐́̑͛̓̄̕͘͟͢ ͮ͆ͥͬ͌̓͗̏͋̚͞͏̨̱̳͓̣͕͙̠͓͕̜̭̳͕̬̱̞y͊̽͛̐ͫ͛͢҉̵͏̝̮͚̯o̥͚͕̤̹̲̣̗̩ͣ̇̃̽ͬ͂͌̇̏̎ͮ̑̑̈́͘͠ủͤ͐̎̿͗̈̌̈́͗̉ͨͣ͘͏̨͉̥̦̣̖̞̗̣͟ ̠̠̤͔ͪ̊ͧ̈́ͫ͑̕̕͘͟į̀ͥ̈̍͜͝͏̯̦̪̼ ̡̡̱̘̟͙͚͇̬͕̯̲̥̞͙͋̐̔ͧ͢͝͞l̈̑͋̽ͧ̍̊͊̈́ͧ̈́͠͏̼͎̫̲̖̣̻͘ǫ̢͚̫̝͎͉̘̦̭͋̓̓̿̉̋̄́̍̆͌̍̽ͅv͛͊̿ͨ͊̓̐ͭͨ͂̎̍͋͂̔ͦ́̽́҉͓̜̺̬͔͍͉̥̹̭͍̰ḛ̘̮͍͚͍̦̮̮̙̞͍̗͉̜̼̬̳͛̅ͣ͂͑y̨͕̙̭̮̩̙̻̼̩͇̱̥͕̼̞͚͇̏̀͑ͯͮͧ͆ͩ̂ͩͪͥ̌̇͒̐ͅo̧͑ͦ̈̓ͭͤ̓̽͑̃͜҉̭̝̦̼͚̥͉̱͍̖͕̩̯̹̬ų͚̣̤͖̱͖̰̺͚͉͕̺̳̑̆ͦ́ͦ͑̊ͨͬī̷̻̻̲̮̔ͤ̐̄͗ͨ͋͞l̵̛̙̞̺̩ͩ̈ͥ̉ͨͣ̀̽̇ͭ̿͌̍̊͒ͪ̄͠o̸̢̙͍̲̫̖̘͍͕̗̖̜̗̬̤̬͐͛ͭͯͩ̌͐̄͆͒ͪ͑͐ͦ͞v̢̂̄̔͒ͬͦ͌͑͆́ͨ͒̋҉̷͇͕͉̹̗̩̫̹̟̝͙̥͎̼̼̳ͅͅe̶̦̱͉̜̩͎̘͕̟̩̬̙̳̳̻̘̤̼̓̋̇̎ͪ͊̍̚̕͞ͅẙ̑̾̎̑̂ͥͬ̏̌̾͑̽̚͏҉͙̪͇͖̩̗̞̼͘ǫ̵̟͕̙̜͕̹͍̰͚̙͚̣͆͌ͪͬ̂̉͛̏ͩ̂ͥ͆̓ͫ̋̋ͬ̚͘u͆̋͆̍̇̂̌̔͗̚̕͏̨̭̜̦̰̮̪͍_

 

Strictly speaking, the Place of Forms is no different than its counter-shadow: that pesky, finicky pantomime where humans and grass blades and apples get themselves into all sorts of shenanigans. Like rot. Mostly rot, actually. Always dying and decaying back into each other. 

 

In the Place of Forms, presently at least, there is very much of that, too, but, usually, there is not. Rot, that is. Usually, there are a meager few blips and burps of the occasional unreality, anxieties slipping through from fever dreams. But those are never permitted enough chance to manifest fully into whatever Lovecraftian horror they were attempting, so the shadow-rot of humans, grass blades, apples, etcetera is not inundated with living pustules and what have you. Just their own machinations. Grass blades are awfully good at suffering. Humans, too.

 

Unlike the humans, though, and the apple-fallen-to-grass and rot- _rotting_ there for worm food, the Place of Forms is vastly more susceptible to an upheaval of its own inherent reality. The templates that comprise it are notoriously indecisive. By nature, they have to be. The ebb and flow of the universe demands it. Elasticity of existence. Riverbank reeds in the maelstrom wind that fells oaks without mercy. Constantly, _consistently_ , the Forms must bend to the tides of evolution and imagination as the two waltz together - those uncanny romantics. So by the time mold has got in its right mind to settle down anywhere, suddenly “anywhere” is no longer a possibility. Remember the wolves to teacup chihuahuas? The Place of Forms had a riot with that - almost a rot, in fact. Stubbornly, dangerously, billion-star-pile-up-on-the-space-time-freeway-ly,  it did not want to, but, inevitably, it was forced to concede and relinquish the glorious lupus to a fate of bug eyes and bad attitudes.

 

And so, that is the Place of Forms. Where Death and Adam Young cannot tread, where the Them and the Horsemen tangle in tandem, a tug and take and _tarry_ of their odds and evens. Where a mum screams. Where every mum screams, and the children, too, and everyone else that is not children or mums, although that’s marginally few in the end. You know. Promised, wasn’t it? Reap the rewards of sticking it out.

 

Not that there’s much choice in it. Ultimately, it is a necessity, the penultimate resort. Because something grander, something portentous, something divorced of The Place of Forms and humans and apples and grass went to rot and sullied it all up. Can’t say what. Just did. And therein lies the solution. And, there, in one another - a writhing balm for the sore and ache - an angel and demon arrive to find it. They just don’t know yet. Didn’t ask.

 

And they are writhing. And they are writhing. And they are doing what results of a gaze-upon-Death, and doing it admirably, but they cannot die, so they cannot agonize to the appropriate completion. Can only scream soundless and wretched into each other, into the shift as they degrade to their Forms. As their templates wrench up from their pedestals in the Place and rush to find them, to supplement. Feather and scale. But which is which? The Place of Forms does not make mistakes. It relents to them. Willow and oak. And, sometimes, the reed and tree get mixed up, and that’s just how it is. An intermangling. A confluence. A harrowing heave of the inherent - that is this Place, after all - as demon fails to be apart from angel, as angel does the same. As they grip one another through the unrelenting tide of being made back unto themselves. As the Place finds them Form from each other, and with each other. How to distinguish when they are their own antitheses? A same of one? It tries. It succeeds. Somewhat. 

 

The Place of Forms does not make mistakes. It celebrates them. For the possibilities.

 

So, when an angel and demon arrive together - _together_ as much as two beings could possibly be upon the sharing of Death’s smile, a communion of the macabre - the Place of Forms sighs, relieved. And welcomes them. And hopes for what they might bring.

 

-

 

Crowley comes to, first, blind with a snap-fizz of ozone behind the eyes. He groans and weakly grapples - mind and iris, alike - through the unsettled void, searching out light or sound or scorch. Ah _blegh_. Wait. No that’s definitely here. An agitating tang of struck stone in his mouth and worsened by the serpentine suspicion of his tongue, smelling and savoring in tandem. He spits it out - the pungent taste-smell of burnt quartz - but it scrapes back between his teeth, and he gags. With that effort, he realizes he’s prone on his stomach, face smushed against something cool and smooth and vaguely varnished. 

 

“ _Th’fk_ ,” he mutters, and then remembers his hands and how those can often be used to lift oneself from a position of “sprawled belly down like you used to slink through Eden, but you haven’t been a snake in centuries - wait no, yes you have, to escape Death’s elbow in your face and - oh… oh yeah.”

 

Startled, he thrusts himself up, onto knees and funny bones, the latter of which threaten to give, but he wrenches himself fully upright before they have a chance to consider any such form of sedition. Severely, he miscalculates his strength and topples backwards onto his spine. Several thousand slits of pain lance up his vertebrae, and out from them, too, arms and legs and ribcage and skull and… and wings.

 

Of course. Wings. Unseen on the mortal coil, tucked away, where they brought Adam for those anxious seconds of reprieve and courage. But those were merely the tangible, the supposed, the idea that worms in when one hears the word. Wings. 

 

In the Place of Forms, they are infinitely more. Not just black of brimstone and alabaster bureaucracy, respectively. These are comprised of their templates, what was forged before the beginning. A color and plume of gloaming given way to night, the first night, the dread of encroaching, unfamiliar pitch, the ache of sunrise. Demon wings. And angel wings. Respectively.

 

Except… not at all. 

 

And as the ache of his fall exposes Crowley to the breadth of his Form, he recognizes that which he mistook for himself and _that_ which is decidedly himself _not at all_. The Place of Forms makes no mistakes, but he panics, anyway. Because these are not his wings.

 

“Zzziraphale,” he croaks, still static between his snakish sight. “N’ _gel_ ...’ _ziraphale_!”

 

These are not his wings. The primaries are too disheveled, the heft of them too pompous and lush. Demon feathers preen amidst them - those he feels like a phantom limb - but not purely, not as he felt upon his his first saunter up to Hell’s secretary with an “Eyup,” and a “So what’s the job description, then?”

 

“‘Ziraphale, Angel! Can you hear me? _Goddammit,_ answer me!”

 

He flails miserably, wobbling back onto his knees, nearly toppling again as the sanctified weight upon his shoulder blades drags him down, but he holds steadfast enough to cast about, wild and desperate, blinking and blinking and -

 

Oh.

 

_Oh_.

See… here’s the thing. The _rot_ of it.

It’s simple, really, basic celestial thermodynamics. Er. Something like that. A finding of the fulcrum between two equally nebulous and tetchy equations. But, oh, those _damned_ immortals with their complications…

It’s simple. At first. Goes like this:

When you spend so long as a demon, you forget how you were once an angel. You forget how it felt, the wings and wheels, how they graced you on solar flare winds till your feet begrudged the ground. A demon is well acquainted with the ground and what squirms, effetish, beneath it. It’s better to forget. So they do. The wings. And such. And especially those thousands upon thousands of seeing eyes all open into infinities and consuming the outpourings of heavenly light. 

Some Fell for that, alone. Sheer annoyance. Because the bloody things were never where you needed them. Demons are far more sensible, more human in that iteration of themselves. Two for the face and more if you need to prop a good scare, but only for costume unless you want to royally fuck up your depth perception. 

Such practicality is lost on angels, the flash bastards. 

And Crowley - terribly, unfortunately practical on this occasion when he should be anything _but_ \- stupidly assumed his very yellow and very efficient irises were merely recuperating after staring through Death. Like all demons, he had forgotten his angel eyes. And, like no demon - for who has found again their wheels? their sacred flame? their pious tears? - like no demon beyond himself, he has forgotten how to open them. 

 

And he would like to panic further - would _love_ to, and demons are so rare on that emotion to begin with, so it declaims fathoms of his fervor. His pulse is poised for it, a scream tearing up his throat, bracing itself. 

 

And then. A hand. And a voice. And -

 

“My dear…”

 

And he remembers. How to see. Through the eyes of his angel. With them.

 

And there he is, Aziraphale. Angel. Watching him through fractured ochre. And Crowley watches back. Through anguish of his own, through his and his friend’s eyes, he sees. Sees what has become of them. What their Forms have assumed from them. 

 

Spectacularly, it denies them the pretense of subtlety, a chance to rationalize this. He can’t conceive of his own appearance, but Aziraphale’s suggests enough - perhaps even everything. It’s all there, splashed in excruciating, fiendish beauty - the tender marble of his skin marred over by diaphanous scales and antimatter iridescence. Behind him, a chess board massacre of wings - pitch and ivory alike - sprout arrogant and repentant, confused and skyward and profuse. 

 

Like an ill tailored suit, Aziraphale wears the demonic traces of Crowley’s Form. Not all of it. Amidst the awe of his horror, it’s rather evident this hasn’t just been another switcharoo a la Miss Nutter’s final prophecy. But that is all the demon might conjecture, too burdened to think otherwise, aghast at the visage of his friend debauched in the scars of the Fallen. 

 

“You’re…” the angel wagers a step, afraid of the unknowing between them, what might happen if this is acknowledged beyond the ease of shock. 

 

Mostly, he grapples with the wonderment and consternation warring for dominance in the pit of his chest, similarly unknowing of how to behold his friend festooned in angelic grace. The seizure of opalescence scatter-shattered at the tips of his primaries and demuring down to a more forgiving rainbow along the ruffled secondaries. The sinuous arch of carbon-fiber bone, filament fragile and cosmic kevlar, spanning out in a dozen splays. The eyes upon his wicked cut cheekbones, the phantasmal wheels illuminating the copper conflagration of his hair. A single horn snares out at them, a defiance of his demonic nature. The other sprouts from Aziraphale’s curls, just above his right ear.

 

They are both of each other. They are neither. A confluence in their Forms.

 

The angel tries again. “You’re -”

 

He does not finish.

 

Crowley, still furiously incautious no matter the ichor in his veins or the halos binding fast the two eyes that are still him - still his… Crowley - angel adorned demon - decimates the distance between them, closing in on his angel with thunderous strides, ensconcing them both in the powerful gust of his tarnished wings, the feathers of wedding veil white streaked so brazenly into his mourning black.

 

Stupidly, Aziraphale hopes his friend might offer an embrace, a grounding grip of his constrictor arms. Bony as he is, he’s a fantastic hugger.

 

He does not. Hug, that is. He stares. His two eyes, one yellow gorse in the thorny storm of his expression, the other gem-precious blue, they watch, and the ones that belong to Aziraphale do not. They blink elsewhere, unsure of the entity they embellish. In the cavernous drape of feathers, the halos atop Crowley’s head spark shadows and throw them around heedlessly, casting the serrated length of his remaining horn onto Aziraphale’s face in black relief.

 

Without warning, without a word, Crowley cups his hands there, against Aziraphale’s stymied expression, curling his claws (at least they remain) around his jaw, running his thumbs over the angel’s cheeks where so few eyes blink back. 

 

He tries again, Aziraphale. That charming third time, as it were.

 

“You’re wearing my wings,” he whispers. 

 

“And you’ve got mine,” answers back Crowley, equally shaken, terribly quiet.

 

“I -” Aziraphale ventures the grace of his palm to Crowley’s throat, brushes the pulse that flutters there like a stillborn bird. 

 

An eye opens under the caress of his fingers and stares pleadingly back at the angel.

 

“Oh, my dear…”

 

Abruptly, Crowley seizes his wrist, wresting away his touch.

 

“Don’t.”

 

“But -”

 

“ _Don’t_ , until - ‘till we know what this is - ”

 

“We have shared ourselves before, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, stern and grounding. “But this is completely different. I need to know what has happened, _please_.”

 

The demon blinks, with his one yellow eye and Aziraphale’s other blue. The angel gaze upon his skin winces and glares as if to impart, “You dare abandon us to this Fallen cretin?” Aziraphale ignores them, and holds only the yellow and blue - counter color to his own, he suspects. Reverently cautious, he returns his touch to Crowley’s neck.

 

Wordless, the demon concedes.

 

“Thank you,” whispers Aziraphale.

 

There is little left to obscurity from what the eye already gleans. They are not each other, not in the way that was necessary to deceive Heaven and Hell. There is no direct translation of the other. Rather, it seems they’ve gotten tangled up, borrowed bits and pieces from the other and made two new entities, entirely. The closest analogy Aziraphale can muster is the nephilim: half angel, half human. Disgraces that brought the great flood. But there is no surging spray to reconcile this, no answering rainbow - just that which was unthreaded from Aziraphale’s aura and spun into Crowley’s. And vice versa. 

 

And it is terrible, yes, Crowley with alabaster splash wings and the ethereal hum from an errant few of Aziraphale’s halos. The kintsugi gild of ichor-thick veins rippling beneath his skin. A demon, graced. 

 

And it is beautiful. Aziraphale garnished with the inbetween of stars, the space that hangs them, the curtain fall of twilight, the smoldering gleeds between his ribs, at the edge of his teeth. An angel, disgraced.

 

And it is untread, unfathomable. For millennia they have known each other, but never, truly, have they Known. 

 

And there are no mistakes, here. 

 

“Angel…”

 

Crowley, always so brave, treads the silence.

 

Aziraphale unfocuses from his beauty etched into the demon’s own, meets those mismatched eyes.

 

The demon, his friend, smirks, “Find anything?”

 

In the coalesced hush of wings around them, the angel blushes.

 

“Just… you’re a vision like this, my dear.”

 

“I - _g’fwah_ \- er,” it’s Crowley’s turn to flounder, and he does so admirably.

 

And then he huffs, petulant and still so very much _him_ , angelic embellishments be damned.

 

“We’re in heaven knows where and bloody… swapped up our DNA or some shit, and you’re gonna be all coy?”

 

Even in the flourishing years since their triumph, neither angel nor demon has dared approach their relationship to any degree more formal than a peck on the knuckles, the first instance of which sent Crowley into a comatose shock for two days after. He’s never let on to Aziraphale, and the angel seems content to relegate them to very, _very_ good friends. And that’s bloody _fine_ , but… dammit… 

 

Crowley burns at the cheeks, and the eyes there glisten with tears, unused to the heart of this demon. 

 

“Apologies, my dear, only I -”

 

“ _Oh_.” it is not his voice

 

and

 

“ _You’re here_?” it is neither of them

 

Crowley wrenches back his wings with a rippling thrash of feathers, exposing what they have heretofore ignored: the nothing around them. 

 

And what it is becoming. 

 

Immediately, the demon interposes himself in front of the angel. Between his friend and what? He hasn’t a clue, can’t see it. Can’t see anything, for that matter, and not because of the difficulty of his eyes. Simply, unmistakably, there’s nothing to see. The space around them is decidedly implacable, an amalgam of fog-thick oblivion, grey and vaguely green - the color of a mirror. It reflects nothing. Yet, from it, there comes again the voice:

 

“ _H̤̯̲̼͖̻̬o̠w̮_ ,” it asks, and then demands, “ _Ŷ̏ͩ̏o̯̗͔u̿ͧ are not suppo̤̩s͈e̫̩͓̩̱͙d -”_

 

A reverberant, meaty _shthk!_ like shredding flesh, peals through the voice. 

 

And the nothing takes shape. Horrible, vicious shape. 

 

Extruding from the thick of it, ghoulish, churning figures thrust toward them, a morass of distorted faces and limbs, encompassing the angel and demon in a circumferential display of agony. Hands reach out and are pulled back. Vague silhouettes bludgeon and pierce and fall. Humanoid. Familiar. known

 

Gone. 

 

Swift, merciless, an imploding dissolve. It is gone back into itself, and a new sight rushes to usurp the emptiness left behind. Another known sight.

 

The bookshop.

 

Beneath their feet, the vaguely varnished floorboards. Around their huddling wings, not the green-grey gore-stuff of the nothing, but instead the shelves upon shelves, books a-scatter, the regal pillars hoisting up, the soft, secret lamplight filtering down. The sharp scent of a suggested mildew. The powder of parchment. The safety. The _here_ of it. 

 

“Oh.”

 

Aziraphale, now, not that other voice. 

 

And, again, “ _Oh_.”

 

And furthermore, “Crowley… my dear, look, _look_.”

 

The demon does, seething suspicious, teeth turned out in a snarl, the single horn spiralling from his head glowing molten hot and singeing the halos that weave around it. Breath hitching fast, panting out of him like a feral beast.

 

It is the bookshop.

 

“Don’t,” he growls, grabbing Aziraphale’s elbow as the angel turns toward a shelf, as though he’s forgotten what just manifested from the ether.  

 

“But this is -”

 

“I don’t _trussst_ it,” Crowley hisses, still hunched and gasping, his pulse a mile minute sprint at his inner wrists, the nape of his neck.

 

“Do _please_ come off it,” the angel rebuts, yanking himself free and fixing a stern glare. “In case you have forgotten, we have Death’s _word_ of our safety.”

 

Crowley balks at his friend.

 

“Did - did we not just see th’same thing, Angel?” He’s genuinely horrified he alone saw that. “Did - I - wi’the - and the _fwaegh_ bloody, awful _ghost things whatever_ , an’the -” he gesticulates swinging some great broadsword with his free hand, eyebrows strung up to his hairline with expectancy.

 

“None of it? No?”

 

“Despite you having snitched the majority of my best eyes,” Aziraphale huffs, “I saw very well that little charade. Perhaps if you had paid a bit more a _tten_ tion to our impromptu philosophy lesson, you would better understand.”

 

Crowley throws his hands up, and the eyes along his knuckles roil with a look not unlike seasickness.

 

“Oh then please _do_ enlighten me,” he says. “Impart your bloody genius wisdom, because I’m freaking out over here, and you just wanna waltz off and see about your _books_ like always.”

 

Usually one to keep his walls up ‘till they’re a pebble away from crumbling, Crowley pleads, now, unbidden, his ego a decided backseat issue, and he doesn’t even have the Bentley for that anymore, either. It’s all shit and _rot_ and he’s goddamn _terrified_.

 

Aziraphale feels his defeat like a blow to the chest, and, deflating - his shock having taken a more giddy and unruly attitude - he gathers up the demon in the safety of his arms and the cradle of his own, bastardized wings.

 

“Oh, my dear…” 

 

Crowley slumps into the embrace, burying his face again in Aziraphale’s collar. A stringent scent of gunpowder, clove, and the angel’s favorite aftershave curl up his nostrils, clearing away the worst of his shock, but, as well, reminding him his friend shouldn’t smell like this at all. Those are demonic perfumes. And how on earth does he smell, himself? Oh this is just one _bastard_ of a mess, isn’t it…

 

He groans, slumps some more, and earns a chuckle from his friend.

 

“Ah, I see. Just needed to let off a bit of steam, hm?” 

 

“Sh’dup,” the demon mumbles. 

 

Aziraphale smiles, self sure and cocky since the demon can’t see, and spares the momentary calm to better take in the shop around him.

 

He’s not stupid, a bit rash sometimes, certainly, but never so far as to step on a landmine, metaphorical or otherwise. He knows this isn’t the real bookshop. It’s a fantastic facsimile, right down to the dust motes in the air, but shifts and disarrays squirm amongst the shelves, the books unsure of themselves and which words they should contain. 

 

See, in the place of Forms, literature is especially prone to identity crisis. There is no one proper template, not even for the singular words themselves. The author’s intent, the reader’s assumptions, the editor’s prejudices, the publishers indifference, the Great Lexical Upsets of language,  all must be taken into consideration. Aziraphale doesn’t know this, per se, but has a deep suspicion if he were to pluck down a tome, it would spout as much gibberish as Babel, with a dash of ̣̘̗̲́ͅ ̴̱͇̟ͥ̒̓̃͛̅̄ ͮͪ͆̽̆͏̹̲̘̥̮̭̭ ̺͉͇̙͇̔ ̷͖͚͉ ̡̳̹̪̯̱̟̈͑ͩ͑́͗ to boot. 

 

“N’gel.”

 

“Hm?”

 

Aziraphale shakes from his musings to find Crowley somewhat struggling out of his arms.

 

“Oh! I’m sorry, was world’s away there.”

 

“Don’t do that,” Crowley says. “Might come true n’this bloody place.”

 

Aziraphale rolls his eyes - just the two - and the three along Crowley’s jaw follow suit. The demon doesn’t notice, too busy fussing at his mussed hair, although distinctly ignoring any other part of himself. 

 

“So what’s this all about, then.” 

 

Completing the herculean task of his hair, Crowley raises an eyebrow for his friend. 

 

“Since you know so _very_ much.”

 

Aziraphale sniffs, “Do watch your tongue, dear. You forget who has your feathers.”

 

“And what are these, costume jewelry?” Crowley arcs out his left wing, and the pristine diamond of several primaries fan out like a deck of perfect playing cards. 

 

Amidst what remains of Crowley’s demonic plumage, it rather emits an aura of having been cut with pretzel salt, so any implied threat echoes empty.

 

Aziraphale laughs. Crowley grins with him. They keep laughing. And keep, until it’s starved of oxygen and one of them must pull a breath.

 

It’s Crowley. Like a shot of gin without a chaser.

 

“Fuck,” he says, exhaling. 

 

With it, his meager gleed of levity snuffs out, and Aziraphale’s wings drag his shoulders back down to dread.

 

“What…” he swallows thickly, manages to shrug despite the leaden feathers. “What th’fuck is going on, Angel.”

 

Aziraphale opens his mouth to answer -

 

_“King me.”_

 

Snaps it shut, both his and Crowley’s heads whipping up, around.

 

The demon looks at his angel. The angel looks at his friend. 

 

“You -” 

 

“That wasn’t -”

 

“G’ _yah_?!”

 

Sudden and serrated, a gash of white heat slices up Crowley’s left wing, spidering out from his (and not his) primaries.

 

“W’th’fuck!” 

 

“Crowley!”

 

Again.

 

“ _King me_.”

 

It is not the voice from before. 

 

This time, they find it, and, with it, they find the feathers plucked so carelessly from a demon’s angel plumage. And they find who it all belongs to: voice and feather.

 

They find Pepper. 

 

As Crowley grapples Aziraphale’s arm for balance, blinking back boiling tears, they find the girl, her arm outstretched, two quills - black and not - pinched between her fingers. The rest of her - body head, the usual lot - is turned away, facing opposite and hunched, as if over something. She does not retract her arm, does not claim the feathers to her person.

 

Simply, she repeats: “ _King me_.” and acknowledges neither demon nor angel.

 

“ _Jesus mary…_ ”

 

Crowley hisses under his breath as Aziraphale draws shallow ones of his own, a tremor gaining velocity on each one until a full sob threatens to break him in two. 

 

“ _King me_ ,” repeats Pepper. 

 

Ad infinitum, it seems. But what can they suppose with certainty in this everything-forsaken place?

 

A sinuous stretch of time elapses, angel and demon staring at the girl, the girl staring elsewhere, feathers quavering in the quiver of her so-small-so-human hand. Were they anywhere else but the Place of Forms, her entire arm would have immolated by now, along with the rest of her. But the arm would be first. Practicalities and all that. 

 

“Pepper,” tries Aziraphale at last, when the sight of her grows too distorted, his eyes refusing to blink for fear she might disappear. 

 

Still so much like a mirage, anyway, the girl does not turn, gives no sign she registers her name.

 

“Kid,” tries Crowley, and though his wing throbs and aches, he cautions a step, and another, palms braced in an upturned truce.

 

“ _King me_ ,” she says.

 

“Pepper, it’s us. Remember us?”

 

“ _King me_.”

 

“We’re here to help. Adam’s okay, and we’re gonna find your other friends.”

 

“ _King me_.”

 

“There’s nothing more to worry about. We’re gonna get you out of here and -”

 

She’s right there, sat and hunched not five feet away, but every step the demon takes yawns an age. Either time has decided to spite him, or he’s truly that bloody scared of a little girl. Sure, she plucked him like a chicken, but that’s - that’s…

 

“ _Jesus fucking christ_!”

 

Crowley gags into his hand, bruising several angel eyes as he clutches his mouth, but those woes are world’s apart of the one before him.

 

“Pepper,” he mutters, “Pepper, holy shit, oh my _fucking g-_ ”

 

Aziraphale materializes beside him. And he, too, sees. 

 

“Pepper…” he echoes, the immediate, acrid salt of tears springing up from every last iris upon his broken body. 

 

 “My… my dear… what have you _done_.”

 

In the seconds, the harrowing minutes that they watch her: nothing. She has done nothing but offer a polite albeit cryptic request. Like one might hear sing-songed from the head-at-a-sickening-angle ghost child in a cheap horror flick. And, well, this presents an admirable analogue, save the horror is very, terribly real, and the uncanny proposition of this poor little girl does not portend to bookend itself with a neat roll of credits detailing the implemented special effects.

 

Before them, she sits. Doubled over, spine a woeful arch, arm akimbo with the feather flourish at her fingertips. Before _her_ , splashed out in front of her neatly crossed legs, an array of carnage sprays across the vaguely varnished floorboards: splinters of cartilage, squelches of bone, gobs and masses of thick, wet gore unrecognizable beyond splatters of ambiguous meat. Her other hand drags a finger through the bloodied fray, arhythmic spirals tracing ravines into the rust-thick fluid and scraps.

 

“ _King me_ ,” she says. 

 

“ _King me_.”

 

Crowley, emerging from behind his hands, manages, “Aziraphale this is - this is fucking - this is _evil_ this’s -”

 

The angel registers his friend’s words like one would air through a quagmire, and he can only stand and stare.

 

“ _King me_.”

 

“‘Ziraphale.”

 

“ _King me._ ”

 

“ _Angel, plea_ -”

 

“ _King me._ ”

 

“Angel!”

 

“E͚n̰̮̱̓ͣͩ̉̔́̆o̬̩̔̓͂̏ǘ̻͔ͭ͗gh͓̮̖̩!”

 

The surmounting horror in Aziraphale’s heart spills over, his Form blazing with the light of his fear and fury, and he wrests the girl from where she sits, hauling her up by her proffered hand, spinning her ‘round, seizing her by the shoulders, blowing the tangled hair from her face with a powerful beat of his wings.

 

She is crying. Weeping. A paragon of Mary’s heartbreak streaking silver down her cheeks. Her dear, sweet naive face contorts with a pain unfathomable, her mouth slack for the only words it can impart.

 

“ _King me_ ,” she pleads. 

 

“ _Please_ , Pepper,” Aziraphale begs in return, “you _must_ hear me. We are here for _you_ . We are going to _save_ you.”

 

Her drenched eyes refuse to focus, flitting too fast to discern even a pupil. Her trembling mouth - gaping like a heretic around prayer - opens, closes, opens again, begins the hideous task of that first word.

 

“ _Ki-_ ”

 

“ _Please_.”

 

She gapes. Gasps. Eyes widening gyres of grey-gild bedlam. Her’s is a face of revelation.

And she whispers:

 

“ _K̭̞̟͚͍̝̬ill m̓̒̿͌e_.”

 

And it is her voice. And it is not. And

 

well 

 

It doesn’t matter.

 

Aziraphale lets go. Not because he wants to, but because he must. The sickening _wrench_ of awe and disgust in him dictates it. 

 

And she supplicates, prone again at the perimeter of her carnage. Her arm, the hand, the feathers, they resume offering up themselves as she digs her finger back into the blood. Resumes muttering.

 

“Pepper…”

 

And Crowley is there, tangling their hands together and, with his other, with a spare glance for his angel - another of revelation, equally vehement, equally pained - he takes what Pepper offers. Takes back their feathers. Hands one to his angel - demonic - keeps the divine for himself. Balance, wasn’t it? Equilibrium. He’s starting to catch on.

 

“I think…” he says, well, chokes, his throat a traitorous viper. 

 

He does not elaborate. This is not something said aloud. It is shown. So he shows his angel and, kneeling beside Pepper, gently - gossamer light - he places his feather of white atop a bone and waits.

 

Pepper, muttering and tracing obsequiously, stops as Crowley draws back his hand. She does not lift the burden-bow of her head nor remove her finger from the gore, but neither does she continue her feverish efforts. As though she, too, is waiting. 

 

“ _Please_ ,” she whispers. 

 

Crowley looks at his angel, pleads with every eye he possesses. 

 

And the feather of black joins its twin, balancing on the bone. And something _sighs_ . Relieved. _So_ grateful.

 

And Pepper, still _still_ , begins to shake, her shoulders bouncing, and, as she lifts her head, behind the tears still pouring down from her unseeing eyes, a faultless smile opens across her mouth.

 

“ _We’re winning_ ,” she says, and laughs.

 

And laughs.

 


	9. frame-ed suprasymmetry

And laughs. 

 

“That makes _no_ sense, though!” Wensleydale.

 

“Yeah, so?” Brian.

 

“But wouldn’t that be annoying?” Wensleydale, again, deeply consternated. “I mean, _I_ wouldn’t want to talk like that all the time.”

 

Pepper, enjoying the antics of her friends, makes to offer a retort, but, as she pulls a deep breath, she hiccups and sets herself off into another volley of snorts.

 

“Sorry, sorry,” she clutches her side where a cramp threatens to form. “S’just so stupid.”

 

“Exactly!” Wensleydale agrees.

 

“Definitely’d still live there, though,” Pepper continues despite herself.

 

Brian, having instigated this ridiculous debate, “ha’s!” and holds up his hand.

 

“Two against one, we’re winning, Peps.”

 

“Told - told you not to call me that.”

 

But Pepper high fives him, anyway.

 

“Orry-say, eps-pay,” Brian grins, and she grabs the nearest throw pillow and whacks him with it.

 

“Well, we have to let Adam weigh in, too, you know,” Wensleydale says. 

 

“I guess,” Brian.

 

“It’s only fair,” Wensleydale.

 

“Ugubrious-lay,” Pepper, and she devolves into another helpless bout of giggles.

 

“I move to strike her vote from the record,” Wensleydale huffs. “She’s clearly not sound of mind.”

 

Pepper grins, tongue between her teeth, “Od-say off-ay.”

 

Snickering, Wensleydale flicks a crisp at her. 

 

“See? It’s just not practical. Vowels don’t work at all.” 

 

“You’re j’st’a sore loser.” 

 

Brian ferrets out the crisp from where it lands between Pepper’s elbows, and, chewing it loudly, he opines further, “An’ Adam’ll agree ‘nyway. Guess you gotta earn-lay ig-pay atin-lay, enselydale-way.”

 

“Do not.”

 

“Oo-day oo-tay.”

 

This is often what happens when Adam leaves them to their own devices, not the linguistics debacle, per se, but never quite far off. And though he’s just gone to use the loo and fetch more cocoa, it’s been more than enough time for heated disputes to ensue about the merits of Pig Latin. Or, rather, the details of what a world inhabited by porcine-sapien hybrids would entail. The Pig Latin was merely a result of that which has spiralled into its own specific point of contention, that is: Brian and Pepper versus Wensleydale. Altogether, it’s infinitely less fantastic a plot than Adam’s world of pastels, but Brian’s imagination extends more to the comically absurd. Surprisingly, Pepper’s usual practical approach didn’t deter her from immediately taking to the concept, and she’s been laughing over it for two minutes straight. 

 

“I just think it’s really tedious,” Wensleydale continues, trying to salvage his dignity. “S’terrible for communication.”

 

“Ommunicate-cay is-thay,” Pepper hiccups again. 

 

In the fray of her carelessness, she rolls onto Dog, who yips and scrambles to his feet.

 

“Orry-say!” Pepper reaches for the animal, but he wiggles away and scampers over beside Wensleydale.

 

“Aw, don’ be like that, boy,” Brian says.

 

Dog sneezes in response.

 

“Well, looks like another vote for me,” preens Wensleydale.

 

“ _Well_ ,” says Pepper, and wags an admonishing finger in the air, “when Adam gets back, we’ll ask him, and if he’s on _our_ side, then _you_ have to speak Pig Latin for the rest of the day.”

 

“When did we agree to that?”

 

“Just now.”

 

“Did we?”

 

Brian nods sagely, and Pepper gives Wensleydale a raised eyebrow and a “ _see_?” smirk. 

 

“Well, I don’t think that’s very fair but -”

 

And on and on the conversation goes, the snits and laughs and “ _ac_ tually’s” until Adam returns to settle it once and for all. And poor Wensleydale. Poor poor Wensleydale and Brian and -

 

Because that is not how the afternoon transpires. There were hopes for it, every expectation that it _would_. For no one anticipates the irrevocably horrific until it tears their feet out from under them. And keeps on tearing. Limb and limb and more and more until there is only bone and blood and a vague distinction of a human once comprised of the gut-stuff left over.

 

The Them are taken in a more metaphorical manner. Nothing quite mascerates them. The mess that might result would be awfully unconducive to their inevitabilities. 

 

Simply, they are taken.

 

It goes like this:

 

Dog notices first. Because animals are always that bit more discerning of the shift in the air, its sudden spike in plummeting temperature. Of a vault of oxygen to the right. Something displacing each particle within the meager safety of a few blankets and a few too many pillows. The animal jerks his head up to meet it, ears alert, spine bristle-stiff, a growl building in his throat. 

 

Beside him, Wensleydale fidgets.

 

“Dog?” He reaches for the animal.

 

And then he is gone. 

 

See? No gut-stuff.

 

Pepper and Brian gasp in unison, but the sound is swallowed whole, every last breath stifled to silence as they are gone, too.

 

Brian is next, first. Again, no gut-stuff.

 

Last: Pepper.

 

For her, a blink occurs. Somewhere unseen. Perhaps in the eye of the universe, perhaps from the blindness in between. Regardless, it does, and the blankets are gone, and the pillows, too, the Pig Latin, the promise of peppermints from her best friend…

 

Time does not permit her the chance to find another scream, or a flail, or much of anything, before it deposits her in an unceremonious sprawl on the vaguely varnished floor of somewhere that is not Adam’s living room, or any such room she has ever been in before. 

 

As can be assumed by now, she is in the bookshop.

 

But _she_ knows this only by fractured increments, as her seasick vision settles onto the stacks of books illumined by golden light, and even then her mind refuses to make sense. The warmth of the tomes aglow suggests comfort, a sincerity of peace and calm, a pull-up-a-chair-and-browse-the-shelves sentiment. But only that. Only a suggestion. Its true intent lurks in the shadows that crawl wretched and jagged along the book’s spines, onto the floor, inching ever nearer her prone body.

 

“ _Help_ ,” she croaks, unable to move, unable to comprehend.

 

There is only a plea for this. For her friends, for herself. 

 

“ _Help_ …”

 

She squeezes shut her eyes as she lays there, and weeps silently, thick tears rolling over her nose, down her temples. 

 

Unlike the eventual angel and demon, she is not given an age. To cry. To understand. To cry again. To accept. There is no space for grief. There is only - 

 

“ _Oh_.”

 

and 

 

“ _You’re here_?”

 

Pepper, gasping around a half swallowed sob, begs without seeing, without opening her eyes, with a blind desperation.

 

“ _Please help me…_ ”

 

“How?” 

 

“ _Please_!” Whimpers the girl.

 

“I’m not supposed to,” answers the voice.

 

“ _Please please pleasepleaseplease_ …”

 

A lapse. A silence. _Ditherous_. remember

 

“But you are.”

 

The air shifts. Vaults. There is no Dog to forewarn it, no friends to watch disappear. This, alone, is for Pepper. To feel and fear and relent to, and she does, lets whatever forces be uproot her from the floor, snap open her eyes, reveal her to whatever it wants her to Know. 

 

“You are going to help me,” says War.

 

She is sat across from Pepper on the vaguely varnished floor, hands a meditative tangle in her lap. Cupped there. Holding something.

 

Pepper does not blink. There is far too much disbelief for such a human reaction.

 

Weakly, “N-no.”

 

Severely, “You have no choice.”

 

“No,” the girl defies anyway. 

 

“Yes,” the Horseman insists regardless.

 

“ _No_ we - we beat you!” The boil of her panic spurs Pepper into a fury. “You - we - no no _nonono_!”

 

She tears at her hair in handfuls, whips her head back and forth, flinging tears and sobs, alike. Whatever forces sat her upright refuse her any other movement, so she can only thrash and scream.

 

“This is not that,” War says, and somehow is heard even through the beat of blood between Pepper’s ears.

 

“It is different here,” War continues.

 

“And you must help me.”

 

“ _Nonono_ ,” Pepper buries her face in her nail-stamped palms, the skin of them raw and worsened by the flood of tears pouring unbidden into them.

 

“Give me your hands.”

 

Pepper sniffs, hiccups, but manages to lift her head. In the finger-formed-chalice of her palms, a great, shimmering pool of tears has gathered in a glut, and she cannot unlace her fingers to let it spill.

 

“Give them to me.”

 

“ _Why_.”

 

Pepper leverages her best glare, lips pulled back in a snarl.

 

“Why! _Tell_ me!”

 

War, unflinching, gazes calmly back.

 

“Just _tell_ me! Why are you doing this! What happened to my friends!”

 

War, echoing Pepper’s grimace around her own yellow teeth, gnashes open her mouth.

 

“Give me. Your. _Hands_ , little girl.”

 

Pepper, scared and furious, thrusts them forward.

 

“ _Here_!”

 

The pool of salt and heat splashes from them like a baptismal fount overturned. With a definitive arc, the lot of it spills onto the floor between herself and the Horseman, tarnishing the fine oak in a spreading, seeping puddle.

 

“There! Are you happy? Did I do it? Did _fucking_ help you?”

 

Each word spews from Pepper’s mouth in a spray of vitriolic spittle, and she pants with brutal, heavy pulls of air through her nose.

 

War, unflinching, winces. But still, she smiles. And it grows wider.

 

From her lap, she produces the cup of her own hands, and holds it over the stain of Pepper’s fallen tears.

 

“These,” she says, nodding downward, “are the boundaries. You have defined them.

 

“And this,” she continues, and opens her hands, just at the bottom, like the mouth of a funnel, and from them slops and slicks and _thicks_ a river of red. 

 

“This is the battle.”

 

It fills out into the puddled tears, right up to the edge of it, where damp and salt gives way back to the vaguely varnished floor.

 

“Have you ever played for keeps?” War asks when her hands are empty. 

 

Pepper shakes, her entire body wracked with horror as she recognizes bits of bone and viscera swimming through the splatter.

 

“Checkers, then.”

 

War is entirely candid in her interrogation, as if earnestly seeking out an answer.

 

“Well, think of it like that,” she says when still no reply is forthcoming. “I’ll even let you take the first move.”

 

“Where are my friends,” Pepper rasps. “Where am I. Where - why, _why_ …”

 

War reaches out, toward her, for her, but her arms are not long enough, and the tips of her ragged, stained nails halt a paltry inch from Pepper’s face. 

 

The Horseman sighs, a rattle-through-ribs sort of sound. 

 

“Try not to lose,” she says.

 

And, silently, with a soundless scream and thrash, her eyes are gone, dripping down her cheeks, and her body decays in bullet time, chunks of her there-and-then-not. And bit by piece by limb, War crumbles apart in front of Pepper and disappears, leaving the girl alone in the bookshop, sat on its vaguely tarnished floor with a great, ceaseless sob where her soul once sat.

 

And in front of her: an impossible task. A gruesome metaphor. But, to a girl - just a girl, no matter how she insists upon her maturity - it is clear. It is blood and bone and tears. 

 

Meekly, she weeps, and cannot take her eyes from the task before her, the great swaths of gore and anguish. 

 

And there are pieces missing, pieces that must be brought and found and brought back. And there are strategies to make of it, patterns and platoons, and wide, cavernous gaps in her understanding. And something entirely too monumental has made itself scarce, a secret plot in this menial spat of blood, but she cannot suss it out. She is too resilient for that, there is too much hope for her. 

 

And she sees the pain. And, in it, she plays what part she can, not to win, not even to save. She plays to find relief in the carnage, a modicum of quietude and calm after the storm despite the devastation. And, in it, she sees a great battle, and she sees a great end, and so, she plays for peace. 

 

And War plays back.

 

̞̮̬̪̫͚̰ ̗͍̻̘̫̱̰ ͔̲ ͤ͂ͦ̎ ̖͈̙̹̖͇͇̓͋̍̓ ̦͎̕ ̯̫͖̟͉ͧ ̆̍҉̬̦̗ ̢̣͉̰͉ͪ̒ͣ̒ ̭̀͟ ̿̊̉̓ ̖͖̟̼̠̟͢ ̠̬͛̀͌ ̣̑̀͛ͦ͌͝ ̶͖̪̘͚ͯ̚ ͉̻̺͍͗ͅ ̞͎̱̩̮͇͐͡ͅ ̬̭͈̪̘̝̜ͭ͊ͫͣ̐ͦͭ ̩̖̣̪͕̞̣ͩ͗̉ͥ̿̎̚ ̭̀̋ͭ͂̇̓͟ ̡̱̠̉͛̊ͬ̑̃̃ ͛͆ͦ ̟̰̘̭̳ͭͩ̐̌͆͡ ͓́̿̾̽̅̇ ̸͍͉̞̙̲͓̒̓ ̜̀̑͑͆̚ ̮̗̱̅ͨ̀͑ͥ̅͘ ̳̉͂͆ ̜̝͓͇̻̬ ̦̼̙̅ͨͅ ̦̊͂͆ͯ́ ̥͚̘̭̫͕̐͛ͤ͛ͤ͗͗͞ ͖̮̩ͪͤ̂ͩ͢ ͩ̄ͯͯͅ ͓̖̯̼̌̉̄͆̈́̎̓͢ ̬̳̼̺̬̱̅ ̛͎̘̝̹̝͇̅̋̓̐ͨ ̷̻̞̬̣̻̓ͩͥ ̰̤͇̱͓ͮ ̠̓ͨ ̜̘̝̯̹̒̎ͣ̄̋ ̖͚͓̼͈͇ͨ ̷͕̯̟̲̾̍̾̃̒̓ ̰͋͌̏͟ͅ ͚̖̻ͤ̌͜ ̮̖̽ͭͪ̀́ͥͫ ̟͕͘ͅ ̢͖̱͊͛̓̐ ̝̺̲̮̬͖ͣ̃͗̌̋͟ ̟̼̟͍̖̽ ̵̹͙ ̷̹͔̺̈̇̄ ̢͑̔̒̐̏̉ ͙̩̼̻́̀͟ͅ ͔͔̘̖̈́̍ ͈̝͙̐ͪ̀̈́ ̧͙ͥ̉́ͦ ̢̞̉̇ ̞̮ͤ͛ͧͮ̀͛͞ ̤̞̋͂ ̝̘͙͇̣̂ͭ͒ ̧̻͙̦͓̮̼͔ͥ ͔̟̫̺̤̱ ̺̤̣̫͓̼ͧͩͪͤ̂ͥ̕ͅ ̶̱̥͕̘̞̖͔̊̽̇̑ ͙͚̺͉̫͖ͬ̍̿ͫͥ̕ ̲͇̬̠ͤ̋̓͆̆ ͚̣͙̱̈ ̘̼̱̹͍͉͟ͅ ̲̥̭͇ͨ͌͋ͪ̓ͅ ̛̥͖ ͉̗̟ ̡̖̠̺͔̪ͭͥͅ ̵̐̿ͭ̀͊ͥ̽ ͎̭̆̍ ̰̩̪̦̗̆͂͠ ̨̳̾͂ ͕̞̄̿ͭ͑̇ͩ ͓̲̞̲̞͞ ̰̠̫͖͚ͥ́͋̎ ̻̳͙͊̊͗ ̖̣̗̖̊͛ ̋̽ ̜̠͕̱͑ͯ ̛͇̝̞͔̠͆ ̭̤̟̂ͦ ͎͖̘̇͊͟ ̽ͮ̉̌͑ͮ ̱̜̣̙̣̺̭̄ ͋̏ͬͫ͝ ̲̈́̐̒͛̌ ̦̗̘̺̔̄ͅ ̻̞̗͋̐̌̽ͫ̓̚ ͓͆͌́̓ ̸̩͓̺͋ͭͯ͆ͧ̅ ̸͔̩̥̦̻ ̽̽̈́͝ ̰̲̝ͧ͜ ̋̎͆҉͖͎ ̢̯͎̱̭̱̘͎ͣ̐͐ ̽ͮ͑̆͠ͅ ̧͔̞̱̰̀̓̅͛ ͑҉̺͇̝̫̣̰ ̵̬ͭ̆ͥ͆ ̡̟̹̪̲̉͂̊ͬͅͅ ̸̝̹̩̖͖̫͚ͨͤͤͣ̐ͬ̚ ̯͉̟̄̅͋ͥ͌̑͛ ̮͔̠̩̪̳̭̂ͭ̋̓̚ ̨̱͕̯̰̻̱̮̃͆ ͈̮̌ͩ͐ ͈̰̙͂̊ͭ̈ ̪͔͙̖͑̎̽̑ͭ͠ ̧̥̳͖̋̃ͣ͒̓̓̽ ̜͔̄ ̯͔̬̲ ̧̺̳̜͑ͨ͌̾̀͑ ̙͚̫͖̲͇̑̐ ̩̭͖̯͖͙̆͜ ̝͖̌̑̆͌͌ ͙͉̳̫̘̲̾̏̄̉͘ ͎͍̄̆͢ ̞̹̲̯̘̖̈ͮ̄̚͟ ̰̝̩̮̀̆ ̛̣͇̹̮̼̆̍̊̍ ͙̬̮̗̲͛̀ͭͅ ̥͚̀ͩ̿͑͡ ̗̊̏̌͊̉ ̬͖͖̰̎͝ ͍̗ͥ̎̓̍̒̊ ̝͛ͪ̏̄͂̚ ̩̰̼͚͉̪̩̂͂ ̗̦͙̱̹̩̺̂ͤ̿ͯ̎̓̆ ̵͈̜ͅ ̶̳͖̼̳͗ ͫ ̵̼̅̓̓͂ͅ ̽ ͉͙ͫ̓ͤ̍͋̋̐ ̸̥̹̣͍̭̍ͥ̔ ̍̐ͦ҉̦͓̼͇̭̖̠ ̇̚ ͖̩̬̻͔̉ͣ̇ͫ͢ ̘̩̫̐͘ ̧̾̏̆͑̍ ̖̠͔̟̻̫̗ ̩̣̫͇̼̗̳ͭͪ̓̽ ͔̮̉̉ͭͫ͒ͨ ̬̣̻͚̮̬͛͂̂̈ͣ̅ ̡̓͊ ̠̦̖̺̋ͨ͘ ̤̻͒̌ ͙̌ͮ̉ͣ ̰̠͈͈̞ ͏̪͎̳ ̥̺̞͎̤͂͆͆͋̿̕ ͉̞̼̼̤̓̉͊̉̎̔ ̷̪͉͈ͮ̆̈̑ ̼ͭ̍ͯ͂̂̎̚ ̻̮̱̗̞̙̣ͥ̆ͣ̑ͥ̚͢ ̢̦͖̈͐͂̍̇̈́ ͩ͛̏́ ̛͔̬̩̖̖̲̓̚ ͕͙̾̕ ̋͑̚̕ ̙̭̗̆̄͂̂ͭ ̋͛́ͥ̇̊҉̞͙̼͖̱̹ ͖̝̻͊̿̐̽͑̾̒ ͥ̋͋ͦ̆ ̴̎ͦ͊ ͔̬̩̋̉̇̆ ̻̙̣͛́ ̖̪̳̣̻̠̤̌͋ͨ͠ ̯̤̏ͩͩ̀̿ ̸ͤ ̠̖͇͇́ͦ͗̈̿ ̴̺̔̌͗ͬͧ̈́ͪ ́ͫ̈́̊̌̚͢ ̵̳͕ ̟̻͍̔̽̅ͪ̕ ̩̗͗ͨ͆̓͠ ̗̝̞̭̞͊͂ͅ ̞̯̩̫̣ͫ͠ ͍̻͕̃̊̂ͤ̐̚͟ ͗̄̌̓̆͋̓҉͈ ̻͙͓̭͎̟̘́ͤͤ̄ ̱͙̞͈͍͕̰ͪͫ ͈͐̑̇ͧͨ ̛̹̻̦͙̪̪̣ͤͦ̽̏͑ͧ̚ ̗̲̣̞̈̂̈̏ ̣̟͎ͬ͗ ̯̊̒̕ ̼̰͇̣̯ͤͭ͜ ̟̯͑̉̋̚̚͘ ̭͙͎̣̾͌͟ ͖̯̹̘̙ͧ͌̈ͪ̇ ̡̫̥̤͉ ̗̈́͋ ̩̦̭̰̟̀̊͐̉ ̂ͯ̎ͨͪ͏͎̖͍͚̺̘ ̹̘͈̳̰͡ ͔͔͔̦̘̪ ͨ̊̎ ̴̰̮̘̳̾ͪ̾̾ ͪ̽̇̑̓ͭ ͎̬͎̗̪͚ͩ̽̌͡ ̙̼̱̗̙̓̒͜ ̫̮̻̥ͤ̏̀ͣ̆̒͛ ͕͇̳̮̈ ̞͔ͮ̽̄̏̾̉ͧ ͖̳̰̺ͫ̈̇ͪ ̧̪͙͚͕̑͐̀ͧ̓ͯ ͉̦͍͌͆ͯ̀ͨ̚ ̧̇̒̈͐̈̿ ̙͙̮̇̈̕ ̴̗̞͈͆ͬͫ ̹ͦͅ ̨͙̲̺͔̲̂̍ͯ̏̌ ̥̼̞̌̌̄̌ͩ͆ ̫̟̻ͬͭ͊̿ͥͪ ̺̦͖̍̒̒ͩ͠ͅ ͌͑͐͗̚ ̥̤̘̥̑͂ͥ ̸̦̹̯̟͉̰̪͂ͪ ͖̺̪̈́͝ ̝̜ͥ̄̈́́͛͌̉ ̜̰ ͉͔ ̶̞̣̤͚̳̼ͤ́̉͗̀ ̜̹̠̫̻̠̞̮̬̪̫͚̰̐͗ͭͅ ̗͍̻̘̫̱̰ ͔̲ ͤ͂ͦ̎ ̖͈̙̹̖͇͇̓͋̍̓ ̦͎̕ ̯̫͖̟͉ͧ ̆̍҉̬̦̗ ̢̣͉̰͉ͪ̒ͣ̒ ̭̀͟ ̿̊̉̓ ̖͖̟̼̠̟͢ ̠̬͛̀͌ ̣̑̀͛ͦ͌͝ ̶͖̪̘͚ͯ̚ ͉̻̺͍͗ͅ ̞͎̱̩̮͇͐͡ͅ ̬̭͈̪̘̝̜ͭ͊ͫͣ̐ͦͭ ̩̖̣̪͕̞̣ͩ͗̉ͥ̿̎̚ ̭̀̋ͭ͂̇̓͟ ̡̱̠̉͛̊ͬ̑̃̃ ͛͆ͦ ̟̰̘̭̳ͭͩ̐̌͆͡ ͓́̿̾̽̅̇ ̸͍͉̞̙̲͓̒̓ ̜̀̑͑͆̚ ̮̗̱̅ͨ̀͑ͥ̅͘ ̳̉͂͆ ̜̝͓͇̻̬ ̦̼̙̅ͨͅ ̦̊͂͆ͯ́ ̥͚̘̭̫͕̐͛ͤ͛ͤ͗͗͞ ͖̮̩ͪͤ̂ͩ͢ ͩ̄ͯͯͅ ͓̖̯̼̌̉̄͆̈́̎̓͢ ̬̳̼̺̬̱̅ ̛͎̘̝̹̝͇̅̋̓̐ͨ ̷̻̞̬̣̻̓ͩͥ ̰̤͇̱͓ͮ ̠̓ͨ ̜̘̝̯̹̒̎ͣ̄̋ ̖͚͓̼͈͇ͨ ̷͕̯̟̲̾̍̾̃̒̓ ̰͋͌̏͟ͅ ͚̖̻ͤ̌͜ ̮̖̽ͭͪ̀́ͥͫ ̟͕͘ͅ ̢͖̱͊͛̓̐ ̝̺̲̮̬͖ͣ̃͗̌̋͟ ̟̼̟͍̖̽ ̵̹͙ ̷̹͔̺̈̇̄ ̢͑̔̒̐̏̉ ͙̩̼̻́̀͟ͅ ͔͔̘̖̈́̍ ͈̝͙̐ͪ̀̈́ ̧͙ͥ̉́ͦ ̢̞̉̇ ̞̮ͤ͛ͧͮ̀͛͞ ̤̞̋͂ ̝̘͙͇̣̂ͭ͒ ̧̻͙̦͓̮̼͔ͥ ͔̟̫̺̤̱ ̺̤̣̫͓̼ͧͩͪͤ̂ͥ̕ͅ ̶̱̥͕̘̞̖͔̊̽̇̑ ͙͚̺͉̫͖ͬ̍̿ͫͥ̕ ̲͇̬̠ͤ̋̓͆̆ ͚̣͙̱̈ ̘̼̱̹͍͉͟ͅ ̲̥̭͇ͨ͌͋ͪ̓ͅ ̛̥͖ ͉̗̟ ̡̖̠̺͔̪ͭͥͅ ̵̐̿ͭ̀͊ͥ̽ ͎̭̆̍ ̰̩̪̦̗̆͂͠ ̨̳̾͂ ͕̞̄̿ͭ͑̇ͩ ͓̲̞̲̞͞ ̰̠̫͖͚ͥ́͋̎ ̻̳͙͊̊͗ ̖̣̗̖̊͛ ̋̽ ̜̠͕̱͑ͯ ̛͇̝̞͔̠͆ ̭̤̟̂ͦ ͎͖̘̇͊͟ ̽ͮ̉̌͑ͮ ̱̜̣̙̣̺̭̄ ͋̏ͬͫ͝ ̲̈́̐̒͛̌ ̦̗̘̺̔̄ͅ ̻̞̗͋̐̌̽ͫ̓̚ ͓͆͌́̓ ̸̩͓̺͋ͭͯ͆ͧ̅ ̸͔̩̥̦̻ ̽̽̈́͝ ̰̲̝ͧ͜ ̋̎͆҉͖͎ ̢̯͎̱̭̱̘͎ͣ̐͐ ̽ͮ͑̆͠ͅ ̧͔̞̱̰̀̓̅͛ ͑҉̺͇̝̫̣̰ ̵̬ͭ̆ͥ͆ ̡̟̹̪̲̉͂̊ͬͅͅ ̸̝̹̩̖͖̫͚ͨͤͤͣ̐ͬ̚ ̯͉̟̄̅͋ͥ͌̑͛ ̮͔̠̩̪̳̭̂ͭ̋̓̚ ̨̱͕̯̰̻̱̮̃͆ ͈̮̌ͩ͐ ͈̰̙͂̊ͭ̈ ̪͔͙̖͑̎̽̑ͭ͠ ̧̥̳͖̋̃ͣ͒̓̓̽ ̜͔̄ ̯͔̬̲ ̧̺̳̜͑ͨ͌̾̀͑ ̙͚̫͖̲͇̑̐ ̩̭͖̯͖͙̆͜ ̝͖̌̑̆͌͌ ͙͉̳̫̘̲̾̏̄̉͘ ͎͍̄̆͢ ̞̹̲̯̘̖̈ͮ̄̚͟ ̰̝̩̮̀̆ ̛̣͇̹̮̼̆̍̊̍ ͙̬̮̗̲͛̀ͭͅ ̥͚̀ͩ̿͑͡ ̗̊̏̌͊̉ ̬͖͖̰̎͝ ͍̗ͥ̎̓̍̒̊ ̝͛ͪ̏̄͂̚ ̩̰̼͚͉̪̩̂͂ ̗̦͙̱̹̩̺̂ͤ̿ͯ̎̓̆ ̵͈̜ͅ ̶̳͖̼̳͗ ͫ ̵̼̅̓̓͂ͅ ̽ ͉͙ͫ̓ͤ̍͋̋̐ ̸̥̹̣͍̭̍ͥ̔ ̍̐ͦ҉̦͓̼͇̭̖̠ ̇̚ ͖̩̬̻͔̉ͣ̇ͫ͢ ̘̩̫̐͘ ̧̾̏̆͑̍ ̖̠͔̟̻̫̗ ̩̣̫͇̼̗̳ͭͪ̓̽ ͔̮̉̉ͭͫ͒ͨ ̬̣̻͚̮̬͛͂̂̈ͣ̅ ̡̓͊ ̠̦̖̺̋ͨ͘ ̤̻͒̌ ͙̌ͮ̉ͣ ̰̠͈͈̞ ͏̪͎̳ ̥̺̞͎̤͂͆͆͋̿̕ ͉̞̼̼̤̓̉͊̉̎̔ ̷̪͉͈ͮ̆̈̑ ̼ͭ̍ͯ͂̂̎̚ ̻̮̱̗̞̙̣ͥ̆ͣ̑ͥ̚͢ ̢̦͖̈͐͂̍̇̈́ ͩ͛̏́ ̛͔̬̩̖̖̲̓̚ ͕͙̾̕ ̋͑̚̕ ̙̭̗̆̄͂̂ͭ ̋͛́ͥ̇̊҉̞͙̼͖̱̹ ͖̝̻͊̿̐̽͑̾̒ ͥ̋͋ͦ̆ ̴̎ͦ͊ ͔̬̩̋̉̇̆ ̻̙̣͛́ ̖̪̳̣̻̠̤̌͋ͨ͠ ̯̤̏ͩͩ̀̿ ̸ͤ ̠̖͇͇́ͦ͗̈̿ ̴̺̔̌͗ͬͧ̈́ͪ ́ͫ̈́̊̌̚͢ ̵̳͕ ̟̻͍̔̽̅ͪ̕ ̩̗͗ͨ͆̓͠ ̗̝̞̭̞͊͂ͅ ̞̯̩̫̣ͫ͠ ͍̻͕̃̊̂ͤ̐̚͟ ͗̄̌̓̆͋̓҉͈ ̻͙͓̭͎̟̘́ͤͤ̄ ̱͙̞͈͍͕̰ͪͫ ͈͐̑̇ͧͨ ̛̹̻̦͙̪̪̣ͤͦ̽̏͑ͧ̚ ̗̲̣̞̈̂̈̏ ̣̟͎ͬ͗ ̯̊̒̕ ̼̰͇̣̯ͤͭ͜ ̟̯͑̉̋̚̚͘ ̭͙͎̣̾͌͟ ͖̯̹̘̙ͧ͌̈ͪ̇ ̡̫̥̤͉ ̗̈́͋ ̩̦̭̰̟̀̊͐̉ ̂ͯ̎ͨͪ͏͎̖͍͚̺̘ ̹̘͈̳̰͡ ͔͔͔̦̘̪ ͨ̊̎ ̴̰̮̘̳̾ͪ̾̾ ͪ̽̇̑̓ͭ ͎̬͎̗̪͚ͩ̽̌͡ ̙̼̱̗̙̓̒͜ ̫̮̻̥ͤ̏̀ͣ̆̒͛ ͕͇̳̮̈ ̞͔ͮ̽̄̏̾̉ͧ ͖̳̰̺ͫ̈̇ͪ ̧̪͙͚͕̑͐̀ͧ̓ͯ ͉̦͍͌͆ͯ̀ͨ̚ ̧̇̒̈͐̈̿ ̙͙̮̇̈̕ ̴̗̞͈͆ͬͫ ̹ͦͅ ̨͙̲̺͔̲̂̍ͯ̏̌ ̥̼̞̌̌̄̌ͩ͆ ̫̟̻ͬͭ͊̿ͥͪ ̺̦͖̍̒̒ͩ͠ͅ ͌͑͐͗̚ ̥̤̘̥̑͂ͥ ̸̦̹̯̟͉̰̪͂ͪ ͖̺̪̈́͝ ̝̜ͥ̄̈́́͛͌̉ ̜̰ ͉͔ ̶̞̣̤͚̳̼ͤ́̉͗̀ ̜̹̠̫̻̠̐͗ͭͅ  
̳̮̹ͦ͌̈̚͠ ̵̙ͮͫ ̖̼͔̯́̋̇̇ͮ͛̈́ ͍̻͂͒ͭͭͫ͢ ̴̟͌̏ͣ ̨̑̃ ̷̜ͩ ̉̔̔͆ͤ́͗ ̺̞̑ͩ̏͒ͭ̈́̆ ̛̫̹͕̱̒͛ͅ ̷ ̜̼̙͔͕ͭ͞ ̱̼̫̱͖̌ͣ ͓͙̟ͨͫͬ̒ͭ͋͡ ͏̜̥͚ͅ ͈͇̟̮̰̻ ̻̣̰͓̬̪̮̉̊͑́͠ ̝̻͙̤̣̪͈̎̎̔ͮͩ͆͘ ̷̟͖̙̻̥̗̬͌̏̿͂̽ ̜̱̟̣̲̯ͣ̎ͩ͛̇ ̛͈̪̬̻͗̓̎ͮ͒ͬ ̭͚̪̦̹͈͇̎ ̸̪͎̼͑ ͔̯̙̱͔͆̔̒̅ͨ͐͊͠ͅͅ ̿́͂̊ͨ҉ ͔̫̥͓͇̼͍̏ͦ͑ͬͤ̚̚ ̠̙͈̈̆̈́ͯ̒̚͜ ̷̳͚̲͊̆ͩ ̦̝ͦ ̷̤͎͎̲̳̂ͤ͋ ̦͊ ͖ ̘̂ ̨̱͓̘̆́͆ ̦͉̫̺̼ͩ͂̃̃͊ ̎͏̙ ̡̹̌ͩ̓͆ͦͯͅ ̥̬͒ ̼͖̯̯͉ͥͅ ̢̞̩̹͉͌ ͍̭̗̗̱̯̬ͩ̒ͥͥ͋̓ͤ͢ ̑̄͋̄ͣ̓͏̠̮͍̘̤̼͎ ͦ̑͑̋̅̅̎҉ ͉̗̼͎̠̠̲ͫ̎̕ ̒̈̽̿͂ ̝ͯ ̞̙͈͉͙̜̓̓̏ ̸͕͖̳̰ ̃ͩ ̜͈͉ͪ ́̾͗̍͐҉̮͈͖̝ ̧͙̆͑̀̀̑ͦ́ ̘͌̔͋ͥ̐̒ ̰̞̱̰̐̃̓̇͑͛̒ ̦̹̞͚͚̜̒ͣ̔̌͡ ̶̙̥̙͉̩͗ͭ͑̋̀ͅͅ ̼͎͎ͅ ̳̫͓̘ͥ͑̃ ̣͉̗̗ͤ͐ ̬͔̼ ̰̫̭̔ͣ͊ͣ͂̀͐ͅ ̫̻͇ͩ̑ ̹͇̺͔̇̿ͭ͊͜ ̤̩͉̗̟̗̈́̍ͩ͑̑ͤ̔ ͍͈͙̱̯̳ͤͨͣͭ͑ ̯̫̰͕̻̐ͣ̂̓ͩ ̧͕͕̟̬̲̬̀͛͊ ̜̳̭̟̘̻̳ͨͮͨ ̭͎̜̱̂ͥͩͫ ̥̒̎̋ͣ ͙̜͔̬̀͗͂͂̊ ̈́ͬ̿̇̓̃̽͏ ̜̣̄͌ ̷̠͍̙̬͕̻͇̈ͬ ̮̱̻̯̙̺̀ͪ̍́͌ͩ̃͡ ̧̲̑̄̄͌̈̌ͦ ̳̜̝͛̌̃͛̏̚͜ ̧̹͈̮̠̹̦̒̿ͅ ̧͈͓͚̼̳͍ ͈ ̼̬̼͔̯̂ ̙̩ ̵̹̣̟̹̍͒̏̋̄ͅ ͐̐̆ ͥ͂͌ͯͬͨ͏̱̲̟̱͖ ̵̖͎͎͉ͤͣ ̨̱̳̠̰̙͓̥̑̉ͩ̎ͩ ̰̲̦͍̻̯ͣͮ̓ͯ̉̿̈́ ̰͈̣̞͚̼̪͆̅̐̒̏̈́ ͚̻̹͎͍ͬͥ̓ ̟͎̺̰̙͍̍ͅ ̛̭̦̺̑̈̒̌ ̖̞̱͔̯̞̦ͥ̎͆̈ ̛͙̙̦ ͎̱͈͉̰ͦ͘ ͏̝̖͖̱̙ ̞̝͇̣̝̩ͫ͐ͬ͜ ̼̟̙ͩ̃ͬ͛ ̗̱̗ ̥͉̭͉̬̹̌ͥ̑͋̿ ́̎ͪ͑̈́͑ͤͅ ͤ͋̏ͤͮ ̮̻̤̋ ̝͓̘̻̝̙ͦͬͯ͌̔̉̑ ̶̦͓͍̬͉̒ͦ ̷̘̣̻̌ͨͥͫ ͇̤̫̰͚̆ͮͯ̈́ ̙̙̙̞̠̲͛ ̦ͦ̽̅̍ͣͮ̍ ̳̹̦̗̟̊̋̍̈́̆͜ ̹͎͍̪̹̜̓̐̾͗̆̑ ̟̦͍̗̙ ̟̤͖̪̬͈̇̿ͨͣ́̓ ̶̦̮̥̹̅͊̓͐̃̒ ̝̺̺̖͉ͩ̔͂̉ͅ ̣̰͔̣͂ͯͭ̓̽ ̤̪̹̝̜̇̈͐͠ ͧͩ̐̈́̈ͯ́͢ ̥̦̲͓̟̊̑͋̂͂̑͛͘ ̸̯̹̣̗͎͐ ̓ͩ ̼̜͖̬́ ̭̬̗̠̥ͣͩ͒̒̈ͬ ̖̯͍̩̘̏ͪ̍̓ͯ͞ ̷̯̭̟̾̎͋͐ͨ ̘̾͛ͮ̓͊ ͤ ͆̓ͬ҉ ͎͙̉̅̐ͧ͐̚ ̴̹̗͙̿̐̒̎ ̣̹̤̤̼̎̊̅̀́͊ ̻̬̭ͧͣ ̋̓ͥͩ ̦̖̦̝̉ͩ͂͟ ̤̱̫͌̌̍̽̔̄̚ͅ ̟̭̥̰̗͑͆͛̈̓̏ ̢̯̙̠̣̘̙ ͉̟͔̪̬ͬ̆͑̌ͅ ͕͚͖ ̯̞͕̈́̀ͅ ̘̘̩̝̱ͪ͗ͩ͒͑ͩ͘ ̥̫̪͐̂ͅͅ ̤͍͍͓͚͉̊͌ ͈̭͐͆̈́̊ͨ̃ ̦̗̟̲̐̈́̀̆ͬ̏̆ ͉̝̯̼̥̐ͣ̎͠ ͇͈͎̖̅̓ͪͧ ̄ͭ̈ͮ͏̰̱̬̼͎̤ ̡ͮ ̩͙̩͙̱̌ ͕̫͕̻̼ͬͦ̍̄ͭ ̏ͦͧ̓̒͊ͤ ̥͚̻̖͙̭̫̓̄͑͋ ̼̖ͯ͋̐̌ ͯ̑͋̔ ̞̭͈͇͊ͫ͆ͣ̈́ͩ̕ ̹̗̤̿ͥ̍ͧ ̝̟̳͖̄̂̔̌̕ ̶̲̲ͪ͐ͅ  
̸̜͍̅̈́͆̏̾̆ ̖͚ͥ͐ͣ͢ ̛̎ͅ ̬͍̣̄͡ ̺͓͇̟̪̜̠͒̇̓͠ ̭̝̉̿ͮ̈́ ̠̰͍̤͖͜ ͕͕͎̅ ̴̣̩̘̦͕ͪͮ͒̃ ̰̜̭̥̯̓́ͨ̄ ͒̆ ̡̝̞̺̹̩̌̑ͤ́ ̊̄̅ͯ̈̚ ̙̺͔͗ ̮̱̟̪̜̽̄̈́̓ͭ̕ ̮̻̺̺ͦͬͭ̔̇ ͤ̄̆̉͢ ͙̱̥͞ ̫̊ͭ͛ͥ̑̀ ̴͚̲͈͎̩̱̲ͫ̃̔̎ ̶̞̟͖͍̫̜̖̒͌͒ͧ̊̾ ͈̬̗͉̬̮͈̐̐̂̿͘ ̩ͯ͗̐̽̇ ̯͙̈́ͥͫ̂̚ ̺͖̻̼̗̘͙ͩͧ͊̌ͥ̽ ̶̼̗̮͕̭ͦͣ̍͑̍ͧ ̵̜̅͊̿̊̋̒ ̶͙̺͚ͥ̓̀̑͗̚ ̨͕̰͔̮̜̎ͅ ̟̞͖̬̳͙ ̶̠̏̄ ̖̙͚̬̰͌̉ͤ̆͆̀ͣ͘ͅ ̵͉̫̼̞͙̞̍̂ͬ̅ ̻̳͎̫̼̊ͨ̌̚ͅ ͯ ̪͈ͮ̀ ̛̆ͥͬ̃̂ ̮̼̥̙̠ͭ ̈͗̀̊̽̒ ͓̱͚̠̣̰̿͂ ̖̹ ̹̻͉̬̟̪̣̈͡ ̞̤͒̆ͯ̍̕ ̙̹͈̱͝ ̇̾҉͚̮͎͓̥̮̻ ͈̘̖͇̞̤ͯͤ̾ͣ́̎͂ ͑̓͐̇͏ ̖̬̥͈̫̟̙̀̽͊ ͍̣̺͖̠̿̓̿̈́̿̔̅ ̘̯̀̐̾̐̑͌ͥ ̹̦̞̯͉͓̭͂ ̧͂̌ ̘̘̰̖̺ͨ͞ ͔̥̈́ͪͮ͟ ̶̱̝́̈̏ͥ̐ͪ̂ ̭͎̠ͪͭͧ̎ ̱̹͉̱̿̿̋̿̾͡ ͖ ̜̠̹͖̝̦̰ͯ̆̂ ͍͚̫ͥ͊ ̝̳ͪ̊ͨ̂ ̢̗̣̰̮̦̭ͫ̾ ̜̦͚͇͓̖̝͋̄ͣ̈́̕ ͙̞͉͂̕ ͑̌̀҉̪̘͕͇̺̥ ͩ͏̦̣ ̯̩̦̺̹̭̓ͮ͂͝ ͔̺̲̜͍̓ͯ̔̑̊ͅ ̫̫̞̓̃ͦ̊̑̉͠ ̠̺͖̐̌ͮ̓͗ ̮͇̣̮̂͌̊̿͞ ̽̋̒̈́͏̖͔̪͈̖̭̠ ̣̮̠͎͚̣̦̊̒̏ ̐̈́̈͊͏͓̣̳ͅ ̧͂ͭͮ͐̐̑ ̠͇̲͙͗̊̽ ̸̘͚̤̋ͧ͊͛ͥ ̲͔̭̟̼͍̓ ̶ͪ̾ͭ ̥̪͓ ͍͖̲̪̩̈́͊͛̂ͮ̋̂͡ ͕̲̘͍̳̘̔ͥ̂ͅ ̺͂͊̅ͩ͌͜ ̨͙̼͔̼̜̪̎ͦ̂ͅ ̙ͩ̕ͅ ̲͉̠̎ͭͪ͋̍ ͒͆͊̍͂̄͆ ̫̭ͨ̉̂̓͡ͅ ̞͔̤͕̥͒ͫ̄̚ ̨̠̬͉̟͎̼̭̾͑ͧ͐͗ ̿̄͗̅̚͡ ̤̜̏͂̊ͥͦ͌ͫ ̳̤̺̙͈ͦͧ̎͞ ͈͔̤̺ͩ͗ ̛͕̞̺̊ͤͅ ̡̅ ̴̟̻̦̩͍͍͑̓ ͂͊ͫ ̷̠̻̤ ̙͔̼͇͍̮̌ͪͭ ͚̞͖͚͈̌͒̿͋ͥ ̮͎̖̠͚͜ͅ ̴ͪ̿̿ ̞̫̤̪͖̿ͨ̔͢ ̸͉̖͈̩̦̤̈̄ ̳̱͔̈̔̀͗ͮͧͩ ̝̪̜̔̒͗͆ ̤̘̜͈͛ ̨̻̝̤̬̳͚̒̇̌ ͕́ͯ̄̓̉̆͝ ̦͚̜̭̰̈́̍̎͡ ̺̘̝̅͆ ҉̙͈̝̣͈ ̩͎̘̣̼͎̀ͣ́̓͘ͅ ̟̖̙͇̦̦̱̔͌ ̧̐ ͕̈ ̝̞̠̼̫̤ͨ́̈́͗̏͝ͅ ̴̭̲̀̿̄̑̉ ̺̻̳͉̲͚͇͆̏͑ ̙̦͚̑͒̏̋̅͜ ̲͎͙̼͊͢ ͙̲̦̹ͥ ̖̗̮̯ͬ̍ ̼̙͔͝ ̢̲̟͉̹̂̈́̾ͧͬͬͣ ̰͊̏ͥ͋ ̲͍̗̘̓ͯ̾͂ͫ̂͂ ͧ͒̂ͪ̒̓҉ ̦͠ ͊҉̻ ͔̘̹̹̓̃͗́̂̚ͅ ̷̮̙͖ͫͥͣ̓ͥ ҉̜ ̶͙̝͐̀ͤ̿ ͚̉ͭ̔͢ ̣̟̺̻̪ͤ̉͛͊ͫͬ͠ ̙̪̹̱̙͖͍̏͋̍̽ ̪͎͙̊̈́ͥ ̵̰̞͖̝ ̲̭͇͔́̉̍ͧ͞ ̨͎ ̲̥͎̯͖̲̌͌͊̆̉ͭͨ͘ ̢̦̺͋ͯ͛͒̔̀ ̟͈̳̎͡ ̘͍̩̝ ̸̖͇͍ͯ̈́̽̂̌ ̜̪͉̖͕ͫ̋̄ͬ̀ͭ͂͢ ̷̜͈ ̾ͣ̓̊͒̏͏ ̟ ͔̪̯̟͕͒ͨͤ͆ͭ̏̒ ͒͏͎̳͎̗̥̹͇ ̣̻͔̙̤͍̗̈͑̓̔ ͔̰ ̫̘̲͍̏ ̮̉ͦ͒ͬͤ ͇̜͕̦̑ͥ̇ ͏͍͈̙ ̜͕̜̥̻̊ ͣ҉̤̜̫͉̹̥͓ ̳̈́ͨ͂ͪ̐͗̽ ̣͚̲̗̚ ̵ͩͩͮ̄ ͇̗̖̫̣̉͒̏ ̦̻̺͖̀̋̽̇̎ͫ̈ ̛͔͔̞ ̝̯ͬ̀ͣ̔ ̙̥̯̥̾ͨͦͩ̚ ̳͙̈ͪ̏̐̊͂͡ ̪̞̺̠͎̦͔ͤ̒̓ͤ ̭͈̤͕̠̂̃̊ ̹̘̘̤͎̪͉̃ͭ̅ͧ̏ͥ̋ ̖͓̣͓̿̄ ̨ ̵̎ͬͬ͋̓͐̔ ̮̫̱̍̏̋͟ ̧ͪ̓ ̰ ͓̺̟͍̣̇̒ͅ ̛̙̭̱̄̋̓ ̼̱̬͙͙̾͗ ͉̓̉ͦͭ͠ ̪̦̻͎ͫͤ͊͊ͦ ̻̯͎̹̬ ͚͍͖̱̮̦̻̿̀͜ ̥̮̝̟̩͉ͬ̈́̅͂̑̚ͅ ̫̙̟̱̪̖̞̂̒̓͂ͬ ̖͕̮̋̆ͭ͌̇̊̕ ̷̟ͮ̅̽̃̅ ̣̥͙̭̙ ̙̟̬̬̱̤͎́̅ͩ͊̄ ̷͎̄̽̐ ̆͛̽ ̡ͭ͆ͪͤͮ̌̑ ̙̜̹̤̗̀͛̽̿ͪ ̼̦̎ͦͨ̊́̍̈͠ ̜̠̼̪̗̳̟͆̿ͮ͠ ͙̞̉̋ͦ̒ͭ̾̋ ̢̊ ̨̠͓̭̪ͬ̀͋̅̊ ̞̘̮̻̬̬̥̀̆͜ ̫̠̣̭̲ͭͨ̓͛́̑ ͈̗̤̖̗ ̼̮͓̈́͒͑̄ ̙͕̻̇̓̽̌̉ͣ̚ ̬ͬ́ ̼̘̉̂̉ͭ ̩̎̇͐ͫ̌ ̳̻͑ͪ ̺͍̣̫̄͌̎̃͝ ̴̋́ ͉͇͔͔̞͉͛ͮ ͏͕̻̱̮̲̻͕ ̼̻̫̝̻͕͌̒ͥ̅̀̚̚ͅ ̦̝̖̲̯͚ͤ͋̎ ͭͪͬ̑ͫ҉̪͚̲̳̘̮ͅ ̬͛ͭ̄͑̇ͫ ͚̤͚͎̻͚̟̾ͣͨ̽̕ ̷̭̹̗͚̟́̓͒̊̊ ͙̖̈̒͊̌͘ͅ ͑̒̏ ̻͎̤̟̞̄̽̈́̉̒͂͂͝ ̣̯͚̪̲̀̆̆̌̆̏̋ ̹͆̍͂͋ͭ̓̚ ͙̟̃ ͍̿ͥ̄͘ ̴̯͖̠̹̥ͯͬͣ͗ͪ̏̎ ͕͋ ͎͔̈̍̓ͪ̕ ̨̺̻̫̫͓ ̟̞̯͔̞͌͜ ͕̞̟̦̊ͬͬ̆͂ ̬̤͇̺̻ͣͣ͂ͨ̒̂͛ ̞̜̼̗̣̫̌ͥͮ̍͋͗ͭ ̬̭ͣͩ͋̄̀ͮ̔ ͍̖ͭ̉͜ͅ ̺̥̮̤̝͎̦̽͛̃̍͒ ̮̰̤̗̘͐͋̍̋͋ͧ ̪̯̜̙ ͆͑͒̒̉͐͛͏̜̙ ̪̞̏ͬ̔̿ͨͅ ̃̉͑ͭ̀̄͆ ̩̞̱̮̆ͦ͐͒̋ͥͫ ̖͞ ̧͕̪̮̝̼͕̳͐̅͋ ̤̲̬̻ͫ̉ ̶͚̯̇ ̥̫̤͙͉̩͒͛ͦ̓͟ ̠̠̖̙ͬͅͅ ̛̟͐͛͐̐ͨ̈̊ ̡͓ ̶̰̩͉̖͚̏͋ ̗̭̪́͐̾ͣ͗ͤ̎ ̖̠͚͕ͤ̆́ͅ ̯ ̪͍̫̱̙͍͂̓ ͙̭̒̊͒ͭ̈́̂͜ͅ ̖͎͔͌ ͉ ̧̩̐̈̓ ͚̦̱̘̥̪̬̀̈́̅̄͑ ̙̈̒͂͛ ̻̤̱̬͖͊̆̈ͮ ̠̮̭͚̅̋̎̆̃ ̗̘̪͈͈͔̹ ̌ ̵̼̰̟͂ͣ̈́̿ͅ ͕͙̗͚̌ͧ̉̄̄͆͠ ͨ̅ͭ̊͑̍͆͏͕̭̩ ͎̖̘͕͗͜ ̱̞̜̼̼̠̐ͯ̄̊ ̤̟̼͖̥̤ͮͥ ̲ ̥̞̜̮͎̮̦ͯ̒ͫ ̗̝ ͇̲̯̩̗̩͑̑̽̚ͅ  
͚̠̱̑ͫ͐ͧ̊̓̌ ͍̣͍̤̇ͨ ̨̠̜́̊ͬ̂ ̯͉̖̙͙̗ͮͤ͂̍ͧͣ ̝ͣ̽͝ ͚̼̻̲̬̱̗̈ͦ͒͢ ̺̣̦̭͙͕̖ͫ ̜͍̜̙̕ ̩̼̹̝̫̺ͮ͑̆͂̓ ̔ ̡̣͉͐̌̽ ̵͔̋̇̄ͪ̽̌ ̗̼̲̯̦̊̃͗ͦ͗̂́ ̸̦͎̉͋̂͊̚ ̛͚̞̯̟̓ ̺̜̈̔̐̿͊ͮ̋͢ ͝ ̲͖͉̻̱̺̔ͫ̈́̅̌̚ ̩̰͑ͣ͊̔͌͆ͬ ̬̥̱̋̊ͧ̀͊͆͘ ̞ͦ̅̿̃ ̘͔̥̤ͩ̂ͣͩ̐͌̂͘ ͇ͨͬ͋̄ͦ̅ͭ ͚̪͈̜̩͂ͣ͛ͬ͗͒ ͍̹͖̅͂ ̶̻̜͖̙ͭͤ̒̇̎͋͆ ͔̞ͬ̑ͥ̚ ̫͔͒ ̞̮̍̽ͦ̇̂ ̬̤͔̻͚̻̝̍̿ͩ̃ͨ̿̎͞ ̝̰̜͉̱̬̿͊͞ ̞̘̞̞̱̜̳̋̀̑ͩ̍̀ ̠̯̮̇ ̠̰ͦ̏̌̌̇ ̰̞͉̽ͅ ̣̝̲̔̍̍̃̀ͬ̚ ̢̖ͨͧͩ͌ ̤̦ͯͯ ͔̦̘͖̝̥ ̵͇̫͍̭̪̗̲̒̎͛ͬ̐ͤ̚ ̶͕̝̭̺̝̮̪͒ͣ̌ͩ͋ ̨̘͓̮̫̯̪̗̑̊͋̆̚ ̫͂͗̔̈͒ͤ ̲̖̐ ̜̖̞͉̼̂ ̢̒̈́͒ ͣ̽͊͌̏ ͥ̑̈̊̂ ̛̘̣̖̳͆ͯ̏̾̊̑̑ ̱̠̝̜̖̋̊ͫ͒ͮ͋͑ ͤ̇̄ͤͪ̋̍ ̵̻̘͚̫̋ͥͬ ̴̎̾̑ͥͭ̏̚ ̠̱̏ͪ́̊̿ ͎͇̜͚̮̘͗͂̿͆͌ ̢͚͔̭̅ͨ͌ ̖ͪ̒̄ ͕̱̠ ͔̻͕̰̅ ̖̄͒̆̄ͥ́̽͟ ̗͇̝͓͎̭̭ͣ̈̾̐ ̴̼͍͈͇̝ͯ̌̅̈͛ ̢̱͇̰̗̪͓ͯ̒͋͆ͦ ̸͈͈͎̾͋ͯ ̊ͨ ̧͈̝͆̆ ̖͈͖̲ͦ ̞̬̼̳͔͓̋ͮ͌̃̃̍͗ ͨ̀ͩ̎ͪ̚҉̪̗ ̸̻̜̽̿ ̩͑̈́ͨ̐̓ͪ ̙̠̳̮̳͗̅̍ ̹̄͊̓ͤ̒͡ ̐ ̣̥̑͘ ͈͓̦̯̻̙̂ͪ͆ ̜̺̮̙͚̮̖̃ͣͨͧ ͊ͦ̈͌ͪ̚͏͍̝ ̲̗͈̮̺͉̫͠ ͎͔̹̖ ̺͎̪̰͓̥͚̉̒͛͆ ̘̌ͭ̃ͤͪ̅ ͆̈҉̞ ̡͌͂̾ͧ̄̽ͦ ̰̠̏ͫͬͥͧ͟ ҉͈ ͙̱͓͓̗̮̐̆ͮͮͦ ̄͡ ͕͚ͤ̆́̅̑̑ ͍͚̻̹̦̖̈ͨ͒ͯ͆̈  
̼͊ͥ͒̅͜ ̵͉͒̽͆̌̾ ͉̯͚̣̔͒͂ͬ̆ ͖̳̼̟̟̥̺͡ ̵̞͕̈ͧ̈́ ͈̙̥̤̞̓ͪ̽ͭ͟ ̢͇̜̤̹̳͙͒̏͑͂̿̒ͅ ̢͛͆ ̵̘̺̱͕̳ͩͧ̈ͯ̊ ̋͊̐̈̊ ͉̬̹ ̵̮̗͇̮̦͙̳ ͉͙ͯ͟ ̮̣̫ͧ͒͂͒̆ͥ̈ͅ ̰̊͛̓̆ͭ ̼̩͓̖͉̦̽ͥ̓̋̈́ͥͅ ̤͎̩͍̻̒̈ ̈́̄̊̊͢ ̹̞̿̋ͅ ̷̫̰͈͍̖̰̂ͅ ̦͙̜͔̓ͨ̑̋ͣ̕ ͈̼̟̪̿̌̄̂̄ ̗̪̩ͫͤ̆̅͜ ̨̟̦̒ͭ̽ͪͅ ̻̝̀͟ ̧͔͉̓ ̖͈͎͚̼͎̻̾̆̓̽ͫͮ̆ ͎͔̅̔̂̽̑̍ ̫̬̬̙͇̤͝ ͚̠̥̹͎͉͙͝ ͉̈́ͧ̎̊ͯ̉ ͈̜͂̃̎̒ͪ͒͒ ̫̜̋ͮ̂͟ ͉̼̓ͨͣ̅ͥ͆͛͘ ̥͎̘̙ͦ́͆͐ ̖͙͎͚͑̾ͣ̎̌͑ ̱̜̟̮ͪ̃ ̬̞̝͓͖͛͊̿̿ͩ̑ͥ ͇̪̱̗̤͐ͩͣ̾ ̱́̎ͤ ̖ͦ̐͗ͤ̊̏͢ ̑̔͐ͯ̓͏̘͇ ̤ͬ͌͒͝ ͇̝̜͈́͑̒͒ ̮̙̰̤̾͠ ̶͉͇̭͔̃ ̦͕͊̂̽̏̍ ̳̯̬̫̻̅̋̊ͬͦ̋̚ͅ ̲͙̖̾ͨ̓ ̡̦̳̑͑ ͊͊ͤ̔͏̭̥̼̩̝ ̤͛̓̾ͨͧ͋̀ ͕̿ͮ̀ͪͤ ̸̻͕͖̣͓̭̈͒̉ͣͅ ̡̪͙͍̯̻̽̅ ̮̩ ͪͮ͜ ̃͊͆҉̫͉̩̣̟̺ͅ ̡͈ͣͤ ͎͕͈̻̦͇͂̐̉̋̽͂̎ ̼̫̮̗̲ͤ̊͝ ͥ̊ ̢͛͋͌ ̨͔̼̩̦̫̣̑ ̮͕ͣͪ̓ͥ͢ ͍̠̱̣̖̐ͨ̎̅̔̈́̅ ̷̭̲͊͛͗̅͊ ̞̠̮͙͕͊ͣ̎ ̰̞̳͉̣̱͎ͭͤ̋͢ ͐̀̒̊́͏͖̗̼̞  
̺̗̝͊̿̆̉̔ͫ́͜ ͩͯ͋͏̠̤̠̲ ̯͓̲̰̂ ̺͡ ̪̖̼̟͎̪͂͆ͤ́̓ ̳̩̹ ͔̱̟͕̣ ̖̹̼ ̯͙͇̳͕͛ ͈̖̠͕ͦ̒̆ͬ ̰͉͓̈̓̐̈̅ͮ ͓̭̎ͪ͌ͪ͝ ̻͎̦̂ͪͬͅ ̶̪̣͎̯͖̇̆ͧ ͯ͛̌ ̝̭̉̐ͥ̌̌ ̥͇̭ͯ̑̐ͤ͊ ̧͚̩̜̖̖ ̨̤̭̔̏͊̍̿ͪ ͔̈̓̍͠ ̡̝̫̦̋̐͂̅̌ͣͣ ̖͕̣̜̱̱̬ͥͤ ̪͛ͅ ̻͚ͤ͐͗̔ ̲͓̺̩͇ͥͅͅ ̧̱̹͍͔͉̈́̍ͦͮ͂̑̆ͅ ́ͪ͛ͨͪ̽҉ ̼̦̦͖̃͝ ̸͔̭̭̜̹͗̃̂ ̰̼̥͇̪̔͠ ̦̮̩̟̉͡ͅ ̒ͣ͊́ ̴̯̈͒̎ ͇̮ͣ̍ͧͣͫ͌̾ ̮̪͕̜͇̭̱̊ͮͤ̓ͦ ̹̳̱̏̍́͢ ̬ͩ͆͑͋͜ ͖ ̳̤̻̞̘̝̾̒̎̊ ͕ͫ ͈̬̱̓ ̺͇̭̝̲͓ͅ ̰͎̱̺ͦ͊̌ͯ͐ͫ̎ ̦̘̞͇̓̑̅͗ͯ̿͊ ̠ͧ̅̿ ̖͉͍̰̞̈́̑̈́ͫ̈́ ̪̰͙̫̹̱̩̽ͣͬͭ̋̊̃͜ ̴̯͇̺̙͂ͯͯ ̣͉͖̋̀̾̂̎ ̎ͧ̈ ̰̓͊̐ͣ͊͑́͘ ̪̱̜͉͔̖͙̈̂̄̅͋͐ ̴ͯ̄ ̯̖̮̘̥͋ͦ͌̚ ̷̫͍͙̜̳ ͇̯͔̜̞̯͓̑͗ ͖̥̂ ̟̺͈͚͐̽͌ ̨͙̭̥̮̱͚ ͈̮͚͛ ̘̰ͦ̊ͪ̇̋ͦͯ ̸̾̃͒̌̒ ͈̦͍̩̱̦͕ ̥̩̑ͯ̏̒̎̂ͯͅ ̖̫̹͉̥̺͔̿̈́̾͒̄ͭ̈ ̨̪͔̺͗ͥ̂͛̓̃̆ ̮͇̝̟̪̪̙̂̔̿ ̨͈̤̐̒̃̐ͩ͋̎ ͬ̌͑͗̽̊҉̼̗ ̘ ͫ͟ ̩͕̤̉͋͛͆ ̮ ͈̟ͭ ̟́̽ͪ͛ ̘̪̘̝͓͙͡ ̸̻̜̣͖̺ ̵̫̙̘̬͓̆ͯ ̲̹ ͍̱͍̗̪̓͑̊ ̛̫̪̝̼̅̀ͯ́ͩ̓ͅ ̶͚̜ͭ̒̽ͨͪ ̠͉͎̞̖̳̆ ̸̭̠͖̖͖̝ͧ̚ ̷͖̘̙͓̋ͥ̾̃̔ ̟̹̫͋͑̇̾ ̹̥̼̹͖͐̕ ̸̑͆̍ͯͫ̑͊ ̜̺͕̐͊̾͌̾ͯ ̛͍̘͕̺̏̐ͥ̆̋̈̅ ̨͇̬̮͙̘̫̟̆ ͍͊̇̆̚ ̪̲̻̩̲ͩ͜ ̜͑͌͠ ͎̹̖̰̭ ̲ͪ͞ ͑ͭͤ͐̿̄͏͈͓͍̫͓̣͈ ̫̇͒̂̾ͯ͛ ̨̫͕̳̪ͅ ̍͆ͧ̑́̚ ̠͇̘͕̩ͥͫ̑ ͊ ̯̰̫̮̔̿́͑̇̊̚ ̪̣̦̬̟̿́̐ͮ̒ ̮̲͖̦̝̺̟̄̈̓̌̚͟ ̜͎̰̰̺ ̢̤͑͂̒͆͌̔ ̨̯̺̌ ̴̘̂̈̏̈́̓ͪ ͬ̓̉ͫ̚҉̹̲̩͇̣ͅ  
̬̻̤͙̬̝̰͐ͦ̀͌ ̲̩͍͖͠ ̟̤̩̣̍ͦ͂̿͒̈́ ̟̠͍̆ͧ͌ ͖͙ͩ̀͑ͥͯ̾̇ ̼̞̾ͬ̓ ̵ͥ͐ͣͫ ̉͊͌̎ ͍͍̦̯̃̿ͫ̾͋ ͓̣̬̲̟̩̼ͩ̕  
̳̮̹ͦ͌̈̚͠ ̵̙ͮͫ ̖̼͔̯́̋̇̇ͮ͛̈́ ͍̻͂͒ͭͭͫ͢ ̴̟͌̏ͣ ̨̑̃ ̷̜ͩ ̉̔̔͆ͤ́͗ ̺̞̑ͩ̏͒ͭ̈́̆ ̛̫̹͕̱̒͛ͅ ̷ ̜̼̙͔͕ͭ͞ ̱̼̫̱͖̌ͣ ͓͙̟ͨͫͬ̒ͭ͋͡ ͏̜̥͚ͅ ͈͇̟̮̰̻ ̻̣̰͓̬̪̮̉̊͑́͠ ̝̻͙̤̣̪͈̎̎̔ͮͩ͆͘ ̷̟͖̙̻̥̗̬͌̏̿͂̽ ̜̱̟̣̲̯ͣ̎ͩ͛̇ ̛͈̪̬̻͗̓̎ͮ͒ͬ ̭͚̪̦̹͈͇̎ ̸̪͎̼͑ ͔̯̙̱͔͆̔̒̅ͨ͐͊͠ͅͅ ̿́͂̊ͨ҉ ͔̫̥͓͇̼͍̏ͦ͑ͬͤ̚̚ ̠̙͈̈̆̈́ͯ̒̚͜ ̷̳͚̲͊̆ͩ ̦̝ͦ ̷̤͎͎̲̳̂ͤ͋ ̦͊ ͖ ̘̂ ̨̱͓̘̆́͆ ̦͉̫̺̼ͩ͂̃̃͊ ̎͏̙ ̡̹̌ͩ̓͆ͦͯͅ ̥̬͒ ̼͖̯̯͉ͥͅ ̢̞̩̹͉͌ ͍̭̗̗̱̯̬ͩ̒ͥͥ͋̓ͤ͢ ̑̄͋̄ͣ̓͏̠̮͍̘̤̼͎ ͦ̑͑̋̅̅̎҉ ͉̗̼͎̠̠̲ͫ̎̕ ̒̈̽̿͂ ̝ͯ ̞̙͈͉͙̜̓̓̏ ̸͕͖̳̰ ̃ͩ ̜͈͉ͪ ́̾͗̍͐҉̮͈͖̝ ̧͙̆͑̀̀̑ͦ́ ̘͌̔͋ͥ̐̒ ̰̞̱̰̐̃̓̇͑͛̒ ̦̹̞͚͚̜̒ͣ̔̌͡ ̶̙̥̙͉̩͗ͭ͑̋̀ͅͅ ̼͎͎ͅ ̳̫͓̘ͥ͑̃ ̣͉̗̗ͤ͐ ̬͔̼ ̰̫̭̔ͣ͊ͣ͂̀͐ͅ ̫̻͇ͩ̑ ̹͇̺͔̇̿ͭ͊͜ ̤̩͉̗̟̗̈́̍ͩ͑̑ͤ̔ ͍͈͙̱̯̳ͤͨͣͭ͑ ̯̫̰͕̻̐ͣ̂̓ͩ ̧͕͕̟̬̲̬̀͛͊ ̜̳̭̟̘̻̳ͨͮͨ ̭͎̜̱̂ͥͩͫ ̥̒̎̋ͣ ͙̜͔̬̀͗͂͂̊ ̈́ͬ̿̇̓̃̽͏ ̜̣̄͌ ̷̠͍̙̬͕̻͇̈ͬ ̮̱̻̯̙̺̀ͪ̍́͌ͩ̃͡ ̧̲̑̄̄͌̈̌ͦ ̳̜̝͛̌̃͛̏̚͜ ̧̹͈̮̠̹̦̒̿ͅ ̧͈͓͚̼̳͍ ͈ ̼̬̼͔̯̂ ̙̩ ̵̹̣̟̹̍͒̏̋̄ͅ ͐̐̆ ͥ͂͌ͯͬͨ͏̱̲̟̱͖ ̵̖͎͎͉ͤͣ ̨̱̳̠̰̙͓̥̑̉ͩ̎ͩ ̰̲̦͍̻̯ͣͮ̓ͯ̉̿̈́ ̰͈̣̞͚̼̪͆̅̐̒̏̈́ ͚̻̹͎͍ͬͥ̓ ̟͎̺̰̙͍̍ͅ ̛̭̦̺̑̈̒̌ ̖̞̱͔̯̞̦ͥ̎͆̈ ̛͙̙̦ ͎̱͈͉̰ͦ͘ ͏̝̖͖̱̙ ̞̝͇̣̝̩ͫ͐ͬ͜ ̼̟̙ͩ̃ͬ͛ ̗̱̗ ̥͉̭͉̬̹̌ͥ̑͋̿ ́̎ͪ͑̈́͑ͤͅ ͤ͋̏ͤͮ ̮̻̤̋ ̝͓̘̻̝̙ͦͬͯ͌̔̉̑ ̶̦͓͍̬͉̒ͦ ̷̘̣̻̌ͨͥͫ ͇̤̫̰͚̆ͮͯ̈́ ̙̙̙̞̠̲͛ ̦ͦ̽̅̍ͣͮ̍ ̳̹̦̗̟̊̋̍̈́̆͜ ̹͎͍̪̹̜̓̐̾͗̆̑ ̟̦͍̗̙ ̟̤͖̪̬͈̇̿ͨͣ́̓ ̶̦̮̥̹̅͊̓͐̃̒ ̝̺̺̖͉ͩ̔͂̉ͅ ̣̰͔̣͂ͯͭ̓̽ ̤̪̹̝̜̇̈͐͠ ͧͩ̐̈́̈ͯ́͢ ̥̦̲͓̟̊̑͋̂͂̑͛͘ ̸̯̹̣̗͎͐ ̓ͩ ̼̜͖̬́ ̭̬̗̠̥ͣͩ͒̒̈ͬ ̖̯͍̩̘̏ͪ̍̓ͯ͞ ̷̯̭̟̾̎͋͐ͨ ̘̾͛ͮ̓͊ ͤ ͆̓ͬ҉ ͎͙̉̅̐ͧ͐̚ ̴̹̗͙̿̐̒̎ ̣̹̤̤̼̎̊̅̀́͊ ̻̬̭ͧͣ ̋̓ͥͩ ̦̖̦̝̉ͩ͂͟ ̤̱̫͌̌̍̽̔̄̚ͅ ̟̭̥̰̗͑͆͛̈̓̏ ̢̯̙̠̣̘̙ ͉̟͔̪̬ͬ̆͑̌ͅ ͕͚͖ ̯̞͕̈́̀ͅ ̘̘̩̝̱ͪ͗ͩ͒͑ͩ͘ ̥̫̪͐̂ͅͅ ̤͍͍͓͚͉̊͌ ͈̭͐͆̈́̊ͨ̃ ̦̗̟̲̐̈́̀̆ͬ̏̆ ͉̝̯̼̥̐ͣ̎͠ ͇͈͎̖̅̓ͪͧ ̄ͭ̈ͮ͏̰̱̬̼͎̤ ̡ͮ ̩͙̩͙̱̌ ͕̫͕̻̼ͬͦ̍̄ͭ ̏ͦͧ̓̒͊ͤ ̥͚̻̖͙̭̫̓̄͑͋ ̼̖ͯ͋̐̌ ͯ̑͋̔ ̞̭͈͇͊ͫ͆ͣ̈́ͩ̕ ̹̗̤̿ͥ̍ͧ ̝̟̳͖̄̂̔̌̕ ̶̲̲ͪ͐ͅ  
̸̜͍̅̈́͆̏̾̆ ̖͚ͥ͐ͣ͢ ̛̎ͅ ̬͍̣̄͡ ̺͓͇̟̪̜̠͒̇̓͠ ̭̝̉̿ͮ̈́ ̠̰͍̤͖͜ ͕͕͎̅ ̴̣̩̘̦͕ͪͮ͒̃ ̰̜̭̥̯̓́ͨ̄ ͒̆ ̡̝̞̺̹̩̌̑ͤ́ ̊̄̅ͯ̈̚ ̙̺͔͗ ̮̱̟̪̜̽̄̈́̓ͭ̕ ̮̻̺̺ͦͬͭ̔̇ ͤ̄̆̉͢ ͙̱̥͞ ̫̊ͭ͛ͥ̑̀ ̴͚̲͈͎̩̱̲ͫ̃̔̎ ̶̞̟͖͍̫̜̖̒͌͒ͧ̊̾ ͈̬̗͉̬̮͈̐̐̂̿͘ ̩ͯ͗̐̽̇ ̯͙̈́ͥͫ̂̚ ̺͖̻̼̗̘͙ͩͧ͊̌ͥ̽ ̶̼̗̮͕̭ͦͣ̍͑̍ͧ ̵̜̅͊̿̊̋̒ ̶͙̺͚ͥ̓̀̑͗̚ ̨͕̰͔̮̜̎ͅ ̟̞͖̬̳͙ ̶̠̏̄ ̖̙͚̬̰͌̉ͤ̆͆̀ͣ͘ͅ ̵͉̫̼̞͙̞̍̂ͬ̅ ̻̳͎̫̼̊ͨ̌̚ͅ ͯ ̪͈ͮ̀ ̛̆ͥͬ̃̂ ̮̼̥̙̠ͭ ̈͗̀̊̽̒ ͓̱͚̠̣̰̿͂ ̖̹ ̹̻͉̬̟̪̣̈͡ ̞̤͒̆ͯ̍̕ ̙̹͈̱͝ ̇̾҉͚̮͎͓̥̮̻ ͈̘̖͇̞̤ͯͤ̾ͣ́̎͂ ͑̓͐̇͏ ̖̬̥͈̫̟̙̀̽͊ ͍̣̺͖̠̿̓̿̈́̿̔̅ ̘̯̀̐̾̐̑͌ͥ ̹̦̞̯͉͓̭͂ ̧͂̌ ̘̘̰̖̺ͨ͞ ͔̥̈́ͪͮ͟ ̶̱̝́̈̏ͥ̐ͪ̂ ̭͎̠ͪͭͧ̎ ̱̹͉̱̿̿̋̿̾͡ ͖ ̜̠̹͖̝̦̰ͯ̆̂ ͍͚̫ͥ͊ ̝̳ͪ̊ͨ̂ ̢̗̣̰̮̦̭ͫ̾ ̜̦͚͇͓̖̝͋̄ͣ̈́̕ ͙̞͉͂̕ ͑̌̀҉̪̘͕͇̺̥ ͩ͏̦̣ ̯̩̦̺̹̭̓ͮ͂͝ ͔̺̲̜͍̓ͯ̔̑̊ͅ ̫̫̞̓̃ͦ̊̑̉͠ ̠̺͖̐̌ͮ̓͗ ̮͇̣̮̂͌̊̿͞ ̽̋̒̈́͏̖͔̪͈̖̭̠ ̣̮̠͎͚̣̦̊̒̏ ̐̈́̈͊͏͓̣̳ͅ ̧͂ͭͮ͐̐̑ ̠͇̲͙͗̊̽ ̸̘͚̤̋ͧ͊͛ͥ ̲͔̭̟̼͍̓ ̶ͪ̾ͭ ̥̪͓ ͍͖̲̪̩̈́͊͛̂ͮ̋̂͡ ͕̲̘͍̳̘̔ͥ̂ͅ ̺͂͊̅ͩ͌͜ ̨͙̼͔̼̜̪̎ͦ̂ͅ ̙ͩ̕ͅ ̲͉̠̎ͭͪ͋̍ ͒͆͊̍͂̄͆ ̫̭ͨ̉̂̓͡ͅ ̞͔̤͕̥͒ͫ̄̚ ̨̠̬͉̟͎̼̭̾͑ͧ͐͗ ̿̄͗̅̚͡ ̤̜̏͂̊ͥͦ͌ͫ ̳̤̺̙͈ͦͧ̎͞ ͈͔̤̺ͩ͗ ̛͕̞̺̊ͤͅ ̡̅ ̴̟̻̦̩͍͍͑̓ ͂͊ͫ ̷̠̻̤ ̙͔̼͇͍̮̌ͪͭ ͚̞͖͚͈̌͒̿͋ͥ ̮͎̖̠͚͜ͅ ̴ͪ̿̿ ̞̫̤̪͖̿ͨ̔͢ ̸͉̖͈̩̦̤̈̄ ̳̱͔̈̔̀͗ͮͧͩ ̝̪̜̔̒͗͆ ̤̘̜͈͛ ̨̻̝̤̬̳͚̒̇̌ ͕́ͯ̄̓̉̆͝ ̦͚̜̭̰̈́̍̎͡ ̺̘̝̅͆ ҉̙͈̝̣͈ ̩͎̘̣̼͎̀ͣ́̓͘ͅ ̟̖̙͇̦̦̱̔͌ ̧̐ ͕̈ ̝̞̠̼̫̤ͨ́̈́͗̏͝ͅ ̴̭̲̀̿̄̑̉ ̺̻̳͉̲͚͇͆̏͑ ̙̦͚̑͒̏̋̅͜ ̲͎͙̼͊͢ ͙̲̦̹ͥ ̖̗̮̯ͬ̍ ̼̙͔͝ ̢̲̟͉̹̂̈́̾ͧͬͬͣ ̰͊̏ͥ͋ ̲͍̗̘̓ͯ̾͂ͫ̂͂ ͧ͒̂ͪ̒̓҉ ̦͠ ͊҉̻ ͔̘̹̹̓̃͗́̂̚ͅ ̷̮̙͖ͫͥͣ̓ͥ ҉̜ ̶͙̝͐̀ͤ̿ ͚̉ͭ̔͢ ̣̟̺̻̪ͤ̉͛͊ͫͬ͠ ̙̪̹̱̙͖͍̏͋̍̽ ̪͎͙̊̈́ͥ ̵̰̞͖̝ ̲̭͇͔́̉̍ͧ͞ ̨͎ ̲̥͎̯͖̲̌͌͊̆̉ͭͨ͘ ̢̦̺͋ͯ͛͒̔̀ ̟͈̳̎͡ ̘͍̩̝ ̸̖͇͍ͯ̈́̽̂̌ ̜̪͉̖͕ͫ̋̄ͬ̀ͭ͂͢ ̷̜͈ ̾ͣ̓̊͒̏͏ ̟ ͔̪̯̟͕͒ͨͤ͆ͭ̏̒ ͒͏͎̳͎̗̥̹͇ ̣̻͔̙̤͍̗̈͑̓̔ ͔̰ ̫̘̲͍̏ ̮̉ͦ͒ͬͤ ͇̜͕̦̑ͥ̇ ͏͍͈̙ ̜͕̜̥̻̊ ͣ҉̤̜̫͉̹̥͓ ̳̈́ͨ͂ͪ̐͗̽ ̣͚̲̗̚ ̵ͩͩͮ̄ ͇̗̖̫̣̉͒̏ ̦̻̺͖̀̋̽̇̎ͫ̈ ̛͔͔̞ ̝̯ͬ̀ͣ̔ ̙̥̯̥̾ͨͦͩ̚ ̳͙̈ͪ̏̐̊͂͡ ̪̞̺̠͎̦͔ͤ̒̓ͤ ̭͈̤͕̠̂̃̊ ̹̘̘̤͎̪͉̃ͭ̅ͧ̏ͥ̋ ̖͓̣͓̿̄ ̨ ̵̎ͬͬ͋̓͐̔ ̮̫̱̍̏̋͟ ̧ͪ̓ ̰ ͓̺̟͍̣̇̒ͅ ̛̙̭̱̄̋̓ ̼̱̬͙͙̾͗ ͉̓̉ͦͭ͠ ̪̦̻͎ͫͤ͊͊ͦ ̻̯͎̹̬ ͚͍͖̱̮̦̻̿̀͜ ̥̮̝̟̩͉ͬ̈́̅͂̑̚ͅ ̫̙̟̱̪̖̞̂̒̓͂ͬ ̖͕̮̋̆ͭ͌̇̊̕ ̷̟ͮ̅̽̃̅ ̣̥͙̭̙ ̙̟̬̬̱̤͎́̅ͩ͊̄ ̷͎̄̽̐ ̆͛̽ ̡ͭ͆ͪͤͮ̌̑ ̙̜̹̤̗̀͛̽̿ͪ ̼̦̎ͦͨ̊́̍̈͠ ̜̠̼̪̗̳̟͆̿ͮ͠ ͙̞̉̋ͦ̒ͭ̾̋ ̢̊ ̨̠͓̭̪ͬ̀͋̅̊ ̞̘̮̻̬̬̥̀̆͜ ̫̠̣̭̲ͭͨ̓͛́̑ ͈̗̤̖̗ ̼̮͓̈́͒͑̄ ̙͕̻̇̓̽̌̉ͣ̚ ̬ͬ́ ̼̘̉̂̉ͭ ̩̎̇͐ͫ̌ ̳̻͑ͪ ̺͍̣̫̄͌̎̃͝ ̴̋́ ͉͇͔͔̞͉͛ͮ ͏͕̻̱̮̲̻͕ ̼̻̫̝̻͕͌̒ͥ̅̀̚̚ͅ ̦̝̖̲̯͚ͤ͋̎ ͭͪͬ̑ͫ҉̪͚̲̳̘̮ͅ ̬͛ͭ̄͑̇ͫ ͚̤͚͎̻͚̟̾ͣͨ̽̕ ̷̭̹̗͚̟́̓͒̊̊ ͙̖̈̒͊̌͘ͅ ͑̒̏ ̻͎̤̟̞̄̽̈́̉̒͂͂͝ ̣̯͚̪̲̀̆̆̌̆̏̋ ̹͆̍͂͋ͭ̓̚ ͙̟̃ ͍̿ͥ̄͘ ̴̯͖̠̹̥ͯͬͣ͗ͪ̏̎ ͕͋ ͎͔̈̍̓ͪ̕ ̨̺̻̫̫͓ ̟̞̯͔̞͌͜ ͕̞̟̦̊ͬͬ̆͂ ̬̤͇̺̻ͣͣ͂ͨ̒̂͛ ̞̜̼̗̣̫̌ͥͮ̍͋͗ͭ ̬̭ͣͩ͋̄̀ͮ̔ ͍̖ͭ̉͜ͅ ̺̥̮̤̝͎̦̽͛̃̍͒ ̮̰̤̗̘͐͋̍̋͋ͧ ̪̯̜̙ ͆͑͒̒̉͐͛͏̜̙ ̪̞̏ͬ̔̿ͨͅ ̃̉͑ͭ̀̄͆ ̩̞̱̮̆ͦ͐͒̋ͥͫ ̖͞ ̧͕̪̮̝̼͕̳͐̅͋ ̤̲̬̻ͫ̉ ̶͚̯̇ ̥̫̤͙͉̩͒͛ͦ̓͟ ̠̠̖̙ͬͅͅ ̛̟͐͛͐̐ͨ̈̊ ̡͓ ̶̰̩͉̖͚̏͋ ̗̭̪́͐̾ͣ͗ͤ̎ ̖̠͚͕ͤ̆́ͅ ̯ ̪͍̫̱̙͍͂̓ ͙̭̒̊͒ͭ̈́̂͜ͅ ̖͎͔͌ ͉ ̧̩̐̈̓ ͚̦̱̘̥̪̬̀̈́̅̄͑ ̙̈̒͂͛ ̻̤̱̬͖͊̆̈ͮ ̠̮̭͚̅̋̎̆̃ ̗̘̪͈͈͔̹ ̌ ̵̼̰̟͂ͣ̈́̿ͅ ͕͙̗͚̌ͧ̉̄̄͆͠ ͨ̅ͭ̊͑̍͆͏͕̭̩ ͎̖̘͕͗͜ ̱̞̜̼̼̠̐ͯ̄̊ ̤̟̼͖̥̤ͮͥ ̲ ̥̞̜̮͎̮̦ͯ̒ͫ ̗̝ ͇̲̯̩̗̩͑̑̽̚ͅ  
͚̠̱̑ͫ͐ͧ̊̓̌ ͍̣͍̤̇ͨ ̨̠̜́̊ͬ̂ ̯͉̖̙͙̗ͮͤ͂̍ͧͣ ̝ͣ̽͝ ͚̼̻̲̬̱̗̈ͦ͒͢ ̺̣̦̭͙͕̖ͫ ̜͍̜̙̕ ̩̼̹̝̫̺ͮ͑̆͂̓ ̔ ̡̣͉͐̌̽ ̵͔̋̇̄ͪ̽̌ ̗̼̲̯̦̊̃͗ͦ͗̂́ ̸̦͎̉͋̂͊̚ ̛͚̞̯̟̓ ̺̜̈̔̐̿͊ͮ̋͢ ͝ ̲͖͉̻̱̺̔ͫ̈́̅̌̚ ̩̰͑ͣ͊̔͌͆ͬ ̬̥̱̋̊ͧ̀͊͆͘ ̞ͦ̅̿̃ ̘͔̥̤ͩ̂ͣͩ̐͌̂͘ ͇ͨͬ͋̄ͦ̅ͭ ͚̪͈̜̩͂ͣ͛ͬ͗͒ ͍̹͖̅͂ ̶̻̜͖̙ͭͤ̒̇̎͋͆ ͔̞ͬ̑ͥ̚ ̫͔͒ ̞̮̍̽ͦ̇̂ ̬̤͔̻͚̻̝̍̿ͩ̃ͨ̿̎͞ ̝̰̜͉̱̬̿͊͞ ̞̘̞̞̱̜̳̋̀̑ͩ̍̀ ̠̯̮̇ ̠̰ͦ̏̌̌̇ ̰̞͉̽ͅ ̣̝̲̔̍̍̃̀ͬ̚ ̢̖ͨͧͩ͌ ̤̦ͯͯ ͔̦̘͖̝̥ ̵͇̫͍̭̪̗̲̒̎͛ͬ̐ͤ̚ ̶͕̝̭̺̝̮̪͒ͣ̌ͩ͋ ̨̘͓̮̫̯̪̗̑̊͋̆̚ ̫͂͗̔̈͒ͤ ̲̖̐ ̜̖̞͉̼̂ ̢̒̈́͒ ͣ̽͊͌̏ ͥ̑̈̊̂ ̛̘̣̖̳͆ͯ̏̾̊̑̑ ̱̠̝̜̖̋̊ͫ͒ͮ͋͑ ͤ̇̄ͤͪ̋̍ ̵̻̘͚̫̋ͥͬ ̴̎̾̑ͥͭ̏̚ ̠̱̏ͪ́̊̿ ͎͇̜͚̮̘͗͂̿͆͌ ̢͚͔̭̅ͨ͌ ̖ͪ̒̄ ͕̱̠ ͔̻͕̰̅ ̖̄͒̆̄ͥ́̽͟ ̗͇̝͓͎̭̭ͣ̈̾̐ ̴̼͍͈͇̝ͯ̌̅̈͛ ̢̱͇̰̗̪͓ͯ̒͋͆ͦ ̸͈͈͎̾͋ͯ ̊ͨ ̧͈̝͆̆ ̖͈͖̲ͦ ̞̬̼̳͔͓̋ͮ͌̃̃̍͗ ͨ̀ͩ̎ͪ̚҉̪̗ ̸̻̜̽̿ ̩͑̈́ͨ̐̓ͪ ̙̠̳̮̳͗̅̍ ̹̄͊̓ͤ̒͡ ̐ ̣̥̑͘ ͈͓̦̯̻̙̂ͪ͆ ̜̺̮̙͚̮̖̃ͣͨͧ ͊ͦ̈͌ͪ̚͏͍̝ ̲̗͈̮̺͉̫͠ ͎͔̹̖ ̺͎̪̰͓̥͚̉̒͛͆ ̘̌ͭ̃ͤͪ̅ ͆̈҉̞ ̡͌͂̾ͧ̄̽ͦ ̰̠̏ͫͬͥͧ͟ ҉͈ ͙̱͓͓̗̮̐̆ͮͮͦ ̄͡ ͕͚ͤ̆́̅̑̑ ͍͚̻̹̦̖̈ͨ͒ͯ͆̈  
̼͊ͥ͒̅͜ ̵͉͒̽͆̌̾ ͉̯͚̣̔͒͂ͬ̆ ͖̳̼̟̟̥̺͡ ̵̞͕̈ͧ̈́ ͈̙̥̤̞̓ͪ̽ͭ͟ ̢͇̜̤̹̳͙͒̏͑͂̿̒ͅ ̢͛͆ ̵̘̺̱͕̳ͩͧ̈ͯ̊ ̋͊̐̈̊ ͉̬̹ ̵̮̗͇̮̦͙̳ ͉͙ͯ͟ ̮̣̫ͧ͒͂͒̆ͥ̈ͅ ̰̊͛̓̆ͭ ̼̩͓̖͉̦̽ͥ̓̋̈́ͥͅ ̤͎̩͍̻̒̈ ̈́̄̊̊͢ ̹̞̿̋ͅ ̷̫̰͈͍̖̰̂ͅ ̦͙̜͔̓ͨ̑̋ͣ̕ ͈̼̟̪̿̌̄̂̄ ̗̪̩ͫͤ̆̅͜ ̨̟̦̒ͭ̽ͪͅ ̻̝̀͟ ̧͔͉̓ ̖͈͎͚̼͎̻̾̆̓̽ͫͮ̆ ͎͔̅̔̂̽̑̍ ̫̬̬̙͇̤͝ ͚̠̥̹͎͉͙͝ ͉̈́ͧ̎̊ͯ̉ ͈̜͂̃̎̒ͪ͒͒ ̫̜̋ͮ̂͟ ͉̼̓ͨͣ̅ͥ͆͛͘ ̥͎̘̙ͦ́͆͐ ̖͙͎͚͑̾ͣ̎̌͑ ̱̜̟̮ͪ̃ ̬̞̝͓͖͛͊̿̿ͩ̑ͥ ͇̪̱̗̤͐ͩͣ̾ ̱́̎ͤ ̖ͦ̐͗ͤ̊̏͢ ̑̔͐ͯ̓͏̘͇ ̤ͬ͌͒͝ ͇̝̜͈́͑̒͒ ̮̙̰̤̾͠ ̶͉͇̭͔̃ ̦͕͊̂̽̏̍ ̳̯̬̫̻̅̋̊ͬͦ̋̚ͅ ̲͙̖̾ͨ̓ ̡̦̳̑͑ ͊͊ͤ̔͏̭̥̼̩̝ ̤͛̓̾ͨͧ͋̀ ͕̿ͮ̀ͪͤ ̸̻͕͖̣͓̭̈͒̉ͣͅ ̡̪͙͍̯̻̽̅ ̮̩ ͪͮ͜ ̃͊͆҉̫͉̩̣̟̺ͅ ̡͈ͣͤ ͎͕͈̻̦͇͂̐̉̋̽͂̎ ̼̫̮̗̲ͤ̊͝ ͥ̊ ̢͛͋͌ ̨͔̼̩̦̫̣̑ ̮͕ͣͪ̓ͥ͢ ͍̠̱̣̖̐ͨ̎̅̔̈́̅ ̷̭̲͊͛͗̅͊ ̞̠̮͙͕͊ͣ̎ ̰̞̳͉̣̱͎ͭͤ̋͢ ͐̀̒̊́͏͖̗̼̞̞̮̬̪̫͚̰ ̗͍̻̘̫̱̰ ͔̲ ͤ͂ͦ̎ ̖͈̙̹̖͇͇̓͋̍̓ ̦͎̕ ̯̫͖̟͉ͧ ̆̍҉̬̦̗ ̢̣͉̰͉ͪ̒ͣ̒ ̭̀͟ ̿̊̉̓ ̖͖̟̼̠̟͢ ̠̬͛̀͌ ̣̑̀͛ͦ͌͝ ̶͖̪̘͚ͯ̚ ͉̻̺͍͗ͅ ̞͎̱̩̮͇͐͡ͅ ̬̭͈̪̘̝̜ͭ͊ͫͣ̐ͦͭ ̩̖̣̪͕̞̣ͩ͗̉ͥ̿̎̚ ̭̀̋ͭ͂̇̓͟ ̡̱̠̉͛̊ͬ̑̃̃ ͛͆ͦ ̟̰̘̭̳ͭͩ̐̌͆͡ ͓́̿̾̽̅̇ ̸͍͉̞̙̲͓̒̓ ̜̀̑͑͆̚ ̮̗̱̅ͨ̀͑ͥ̅͘ ̳̉͂͆ ̜̝͓͇̻̬ ̦̼̙̅ͨͅ ̦̊͂͆ͯ́ ̥͚̘̭̫͕̐͛ͤ͛ͤ͗͗͞ ͖̮̩ͪͤ̂ͩ͢ ͩ̄ͯͯͅ ͓̖̯̼̌̉̄͆̈́̎̓͢ ̬̳̼̺̬̱̅ ̛͎̘̝̹̝͇̅̋̓̐ͨ ̷̻̞̬̣̻̓ͩͥ ̰̤͇̱͓ͮ ̠̓ͨ ̜̘̝̯̹̒̎ͣ̄̋ ̖͚͓̼͈͇ͨ ̷͕̯̟̲̾̍̾̃̒̓ ̰͋͌̏͟ͅ ͚̖̻ͤ̌͜ ̮̖̽ͭͪ̀́ͥͫ ̟͕͘ͅ ̢͖̱͊͛̓̐ ̝̺̲̮̬͖ͣ̃͗̌̋͟ ̟̼̟͍̖̽ ̵̹͙ ̷̹͔̺̈̇̄ ̢͑̔̒̐̏̉ ͙̩̼̻́̀͟ͅ ͔͔̘̖̈́̍ ͈̝͙̐ͪ̀̈́ ̧͙ͥ̉́ͦ ̢̞̉̇ ̞̮ͤ͛ͧͮ̀͛͞ ̤̞̋͂ ̝̘͙͇̣̂ͭ͒ ̧̻͙̦͓̮̼͔ͥ ͔̟̫̺̤̱ ̺̤̣̫͓̼ͧͩͪͤ̂ͥ̕ͅ ̶̱̥͕̘̞̖͔̊̽̇̑ ͙͚̺͉̫͖ͬ̍̿ͫͥ̕ ̲͇̬̠ͤ̋̓͆̆ ͚̣͙̱̈ ̘̼̱̹͍͉͟ͅ ̲̥̭͇ͨ͌͋ͪ̓ͅ ̛̥͖ ͉̗̟ ̡̖̠̺͔̪ͭͥͅ ̵̐̿ͭ̀͊ͥ̽ ͎̭̆̍ ̰̩̪̦̗̆͂͠ ̨̳̾͂ ͕̞̄̿ͭ͑̇ͩ ͓̲̞̲̞͞ ̰̠̫͖͚ͥ́͋̎ ̻̳͙͊̊͗ ̖̣̗̖̊͛ ̋̽ ̜̠͕̱͑ͯ ̛͇̝̞͔̠͆ ̭̤̟̂ͦ ͎͖̘̇͊͟ ̽ͮ̉̌͑ͮ ̱̜̣̙̣̺̭̄ ͋̏ͬͫ͝ ̲̈́̐̒͛̌ ̦̗̘̺̔̄ͅ ̻̞̗͋̐̌̽ͫ̓̚ ͓͆͌́̓ ̸̩͓̺͋ͭͯ͆ͧ̅ ̸͔̩̥̦̻ ̽̽̈́͝ ̰̲̝ͧ͜ ̋̎͆҉͖͎ ̢̯͎̱̭̱̘͎ͣ̐͐ ̽ͮ͑̆͠ͅ ̧͔̞̱̰̀̓̅͛ ͑҉̺͇̝̫̣̰ ̵̬ͭ̆ͥ͆ ̡̟̹̪̲̉͂̊ͬͅͅ ̸̝̹̩̖͖̫͚ͨͤͤͣ̐ͬ̚ ̯͉̟̄̅͋ͥ͌̑͛ ̮͔̠̩̪̳̭̂ͭ̋̓̚ ̨̱͕̯̰̻̱̮̃͆ ͈̮̌ͩ͐ ͈̰̙͂̊ͭ̈ ̪͔͙̖͑̎̽̑ͭ͠ ̧̥̳͖̋̃ͣ͒̓̓̽ ̜͔̄ ̯͔̬̲ ̧̺̳̜͑ͨ͌̾̀͑ ̙͚̫͖̲͇̑̐ ̩̭͖̯͖͙̆͜ ̝͖̌̑̆͌͌ ͙͉̳̫̘̲̾̏̄̉͘ ͎͍̄̆͢ ̞̹̲̯̘̖̈ͮ̄̚͟ ̰̝̩̮̀̆ ̛̣͇̹̮̼̆̍̊̍ ͙̬̮̗̲͛̀ͭͅ ̥͚̀ͩ̿͑͡ ̗̊̏̌͊̉ ̬͖͖̰̎͝ ͍̗ͥ̎̓̍̒̊ ̝͛ͪ̏̄͂̚ ̩̰̼͚͉̪̩̂͂ ̗̦͙̱̹̩̺̂ͤ̿ͯ̎̓̆ ̵͈̜ͅ ̶̳͖̼̳͗ ͫ ̵̼̅̓̓͂ͅ ̽ ͉͙ͫ̓ͤ̍͋̋̐ ̸̥̹̣͍̭̍ͥ̔ ̍̐ͦ҉̦͓̼͇̭̖̠ ̇̚ ͖̩̬̻͔̉ͣ̇ͫ͢ ̘̩̫̐͘ ̧̾̏̆͑̍ ̖̠͔̟̻̫̗ ̩̣̫͇̼̗̳ͭͪ̓̽ ͔̮̉̉ͭͫ͒ͨ ̬̣̻͚̮̬͛͂̂̈ͣ̅ ̡̓͊ ̠̦̖̺̋ͨ͘ ̤̻͒̌ ͙̌ͮ̉ͣ ̰̠͈͈̞ ͏̪͎̳ ̥̺̞͎̤͂͆͆͋̿̕ ͉̞̼̼̤̓̉͊̉̎̔ ̷̪͉͈ͮ̆̈̑ ̼ͭ̍ͯ͂̂̎̚ ̻̮̱̗̞̙̣ͥ̆ͣ̑ͥ̚͢ ̢̦͖̈͐͂̍̇̈́ ͩ͛̏́ ̛͔̬̩̖̖̲̓̚ ͕͙̾̕ ̋͑̚̕ ̙̭̗̆̄͂̂ͭ ̋͛́ͥ̇̊҉̞͙̼͖̱̹ ͖̝̻͊̿̐̽͑̾̒ ͥ̋͋ͦ̆ ̴̎ͦ͊ ͔̬̩̋̉̇̆ ̻̙̣͛́ ̖̪̳̣̻̠̤̌͋ͨ͠ ̯̤̏ͩͩ̀̿ ̸ͤ ̠̖͇͇́ͦ͗̈̿ ̴̺̔̌͗ͬͧ̈́ͪ ́ͫ̈́̊̌̚͢ ̵̳͕ ̟̻͍̔̽̅ͪ̕ ̩̗͗ͨ͆̓͠ ̗̝̞̭̞͊͂ͅ ̞̯̩̫̣ͫ͠ ͍̻͕̃̊̂ͤ̐̚͟ ͗̄̌̓̆͋̓҉͈ ̻͙͓̭͎̟̘́ͤͤ̄ ̱͙̞͈͍͕̰ͪͫ ͈͐̑̇ͧͨ ̛̹̻̦͙̪̪̣ͤͦ̽̏͑ͧ̚ ̗̲̣̞̈̂̈̏ ̣̟͎ͬ͗ ̯̊̒̕ ̼̰͇̣̯ͤͭ͜ ̟̯͑̉̋̚̚͘ ̭͙͎̣̾͌͟ ͖̯̹̘̙ͧ͌̈ͪ̇ ̡̫̥̤͉ ̗̈́͋ ̩̦̭̰̟̀̊͐̉ ̂ͯ̎ͨͪ͏͎̖͍͚̺̘ ̹̘͈̳̰͡ ͔͔͔̦̘̪ ͨ̊̎ ̴̰̮̘̳̾ͪ̾̾ ͪ̽̇̑̓ͭ ͎̬͎̗̪͚ͩ̽̌͡ ̙̼̱̗̙̓̒͜ ̫̮̻̥ͤ̏̀ͣ̆̒͛ ͕͇̳̮̈ ̞͔ͮ̽̄̏̾̉ͧ ͖̳̰̺ͫ̈̇ͪ ̧̪͙͚͕̑͐̀ͧ̓ͯ ͉̦͍͌͆ͯ̀ͨ̚ ̧̇̒̈͐̈̿ ̙͙̮̇̈̕ ̴̗̞͈͆ͬͫ ̹ͦͅ ̨͙̲̺͔̲̂̍ͯ̏̌ ̥̼̞̌̌̄̌ͩ͆ ̫̟̻ͬͭ͊̿ͥͪ ̺̦͖̍̒̒ͩ͠ͅ ͌͑͐͗̚ ̥̤̘̥̑͂ͥ ̸̦̹̯̟͉̰̪͂ͪ ͖̺̪̈́͝ ̝̜ͥ̄̈́́͛͌̉ ̜̰ ͉͔ ̶̞̣̤͚̳̼ͤ́̉͗̀ ̜̹̠̫̻̠̐͗ͭͅ  
̳̮̹ͦ͌̈̚͠ ̵̙ͮͫ ̖̼͔̯́̋̇̇ͮ͛̈́ ͍̻͂͒ͭͭͫ͢ ̴̟͌̏ͣ ̨̑̃ ̷̜ͩ ̉̔̔͆ͤ́͗ ̺̞̑ͩ̏͒ͭ̈́̆ ̛̫̹͕̱̒͛ͅ ̷ ̜̼̙͔͕ͭ͞ ̱̼̫̱͖̌ͣ ͓͙̟ͨͫͬ̒ͭ͋͡ ͏̜̥͚ͅ ͈͇̟̮̰̻ ̻̣̰͓̬̪̮̉̊͑́͠ ̝̻͙̤̣̪͈̎̎̔ͮͩ͆͘ ̷̟͖̙̻̥̗̬͌̏̿͂̽ ̜̱̟̣̲̯ͣ̎ͩ͛̇ ̛͈̪̬̻͗̓̎ͮ͒ͬ ̭͚̪̦̹͈͇̎ ̸̪͎̼͑ ͔̯̙̱͔͆̔̒̅ͨ͐͊͠ͅͅ ̿́͂̊ͨ҉ ͔̫̥͓͇̼͍̏ͦ͑ͬͤ̚̚ ̠̙͈̈̆̈́ͯ̒̚͜ ̷̳͚̲͊̆ͩ ̦̝ͦ ̷̤͎͎̲̳̂ͤ͋ ̦͊ ͖ ̘̂ ̨̱͓̘̆́͆ ̦͉̫̺̼ͩ͂̃̃͊ ̎͏̙ ̡̹̌ͩ̓͆ͦͯͅ ̥̬͒ ̼͖̯̯͉ͥͅ ̢̞̩̹͉͌ ͍̭̗̗̱̯̬ͩ̒ͥͥ͋̓ͤ͢ ̑̄͋̄ͣ̓͏̠̮͍̘̤̼͎ ͦ̑͑̋̅̅̎҉ ͉̗̼͎̠̠̲ͫ̎̕ ̒̈̽̿͂ ̝ͯ ̞̙͈͉͙̜̓̓̏ ̸͕͖̳̰ ̃ͩ ̜͈͉ͪ ́̾͗̍͐҉̮͈͖̝ ̧͙̆͑̀̀̑ͦ́ ̘͌̔͋ͥ̐̒ ̰̞̱̰̐̃̓̇͑͛̒ ̦̹̞͚͚̜̒ͣ̔̌͡ ̶̙̥̙͉̩͗ͭ͑̋̀ͅͅ ̼͎͎ͅ ̳̫͓̘ͥ͑̃ ̣͉̗̗ͤ͐ ̬͔̼ ̰̫̭̔ͣ͊ͣ͂̀͐ͅ ̫̻͇ͩ̑ ̹͇̺͔̇̿ͭ͊͜ ̤̩͉̗̟̗̈́̍ͩ͑̑ͤ̔ ͍͈͙̱̯̳ͤͨͣͭ͑ ̯̫̰͕̻̐ͣ̂̓ͩ ̧͕͕̟̬̲̬̀͛͊ ̜̳̭̟̘̻̳ͨͮͨ ̭͎̜̱̂ͥͩͫ ̥̒̎̋ͣ ͙̜͔̬̀͗͂͂̊ ̈́ͬ̿̇̓̃̽͏ ̜̣̄͌ ̷̠͍̙̬͕̻͇̈ͬ ̮̱̻̯̙̺̀ͪ̍́͌ͩ̃͡ ̧̲̑̄̄͌̈̌ͦ ̳̜̝͛̌̃͛̏̚͜ ̧̹͈̮̠̹̦̒̿ͅ ̧͈͓͚̼̳͍ ͈ ̼̬̼͔̯̂ ̙̩ ̵̹̣̟̹̍͒̏̋̄ͅ ͐̐̆ ͥ͂͌ͯͬͨ͏̱̲̟̱͖ ̵̖͎͎͉ͤͣ ̨̱̳̠̰̙͓̥̑̉ͩ̎ͩ ̰̲̦͍̻̯ͣͮ̓ͯ̉̿̈́ ̰͈̣̞͚̼̪͆̅̐̒̏̈́ ͚̻̹͎͍ͬͥ̓ ̟͎̺̰̙͍̍ͅ ̛̭̦̺̑̈̒̌ ̖̞̱͔̯̞̦ͥ̎͆̈ ̛͙̙̦ ͎̱͈͉̰ͦ͘ ͏̝̖͖̱̙ ̞̝͇̣̝̩ͫ͐ͬ͜ ̼̟̙ͩ̃ͬ͛ ̗̱̗ ̥͉̭͉̬̹̌ͥ̑͋̿ ́̎ͪ͑̈́͑ͤͅ ͤ͋̏ͤͮ ̮̻̤̋ ̝͓̘̻̝̙ͦͬͯ͌̔̉̑ ̶̦͓͍̬͉̒ͦ ̷̘̣̻̌ͨͥͫ ͇̤̫̰͚̆ͮͯ̈́ ̙̙̙̞̠̲͛ ̦ͦ̽̅̍ͣͮ̍ ̳̹̦̗̟̊̋̍̈́̆͜ ̹͎͍̪̹̜̓̐̾͗̆̑ ̟̦͍̗̙ ̟̤͖̪̬͈̇̿ͨͣ́̓ ̶̦̮̥̹̅͊̓͐̃̒ ̝̺̺̖͉ͩ̔͂̉ͅ ̣̰͔̣͂ͯͭ̓̽ ̤̪̹̝̜̇̈͐͠ ͧͩ̐̈́̈ͯ́͢ ̥̦̲͓̟̊̑͋̂͂̑͛͘ ̸̯̹̣̗͎͐ ̓ͩ ̼̜͖̬́ ̭̬̗̠̥ͣͩ͒̒̈ͬ ̖̯͍̩̘̏ͪ̍̓ͯ͞ ̷̯̭̟̾̎͋͐ͨ ̘̾͛ͮ̓͊ ͤ ͆̓ͬ҉ ͎͙̉̅̐ͧ͐̚ ̴̹̗͙̿̐̒̎ ̣̹̤̤̼̎̊̅̀́͊ ̻̬̭ͧͣ ̋̓ͥͩ ̦̖̦̝̉ͩ͂͟ ̤̱̫͌̌̍̽̔̄̚ͅ ̟̭̥̰̗͑͆͛̈̓̏ ̢̯̙̠̣̘̙ ͉̟͔̪̬ͬ̆͑̌ͅ ͕͚͖ ̯̞͕̈́̀ͅ ̘̘̩̝̱ͪ͗ͩ͒͑ͩ͘ ̥̫̪͐̂ͅͅ ̤͍͍͓͚͉̊͌ ͈̭͐͆̈́̊ͨ̃ ̦̗̟̲̐̈́̀̆ͬ̏̆ ͉̝̯̼̥̐ͣ̎͠ ͇͈͎̖̅̓ͪͧ ̄ͭ̈ͮ͏̰̱̬̼͎̤ ̡ͮ ̩͙̩͙̱̌ ͕̫͕̻̼ͬͦ̍̄ͭ ̏ͦͧ̓̒͊ͤ ̥͚̻̖͙̭̫̓̄͑͋ ̼̖ͯ͋̐̌ ͯ̑͋̔ ̞̭͈͇͊ͫ͆ͣ̈́ͩ̕ ̹̗̤̿ͥ̍ͧ ̝̟̳͖̄̂̔̌̕ ̶̲̲ͪ͐ͅ  
̸̜͍̅̈́͆̏̾̆ ̖͚ͥ͐ͣ͢ ̛̎ͅ ̬͍̣̄͡ ̺͓͇̟̪̜̠͒̇̓͠ ̭̝̉̿ͮ̈́ ̠̰͍̤͖͜ ͕͕͎̅ ̴̣̩̘̦͕ͪͮ͒̃ ̰̜̭̥̯̓́ͨ̄ ͒̆ ̡̝̞̺̹̩̌̑ͤ́ ̊̄̅ͯ̈̚ ̙̺͔͗ ̮̱̟̪̜̽̄̈́̓ͭ̕ ̮̻̺̺ͦͬͭ̔̇ ͤ̄̆̉͢ ͙̱̥͞ ̫̊ͭ͛ͥ̑̀ ̴͚̲͈͎̩̱̲ͫ̃̔̎ ̶̞̟͖͍̫̜̖̒͌͒ͧ̊̾ ͈̬̗͉̬̮͈̐̐̂̿͘ ̩ͯ͗̐̽̇ ̯͙̈́ͥͫ̂̚ ̺͖̻̼̗̘͙ͩͧ͊̌ͥ̽ ̶̼̗̮͕̭ͦͣ̍͑̍ͧ ̵̜̅͊̿̊̋̒ ̶͙̺͚ͥ̓̀̑͗̚ ̨͕̰͔̮̜̎ͅ ̟̞͖̬̳͙ ̶̠̏̄ ̖̙͚̬̰͌̉ͤ̆͆̀ͣ͘ͅ ̵͉̫̼̞͙̞̍̂ͬ̅ ̻̳͎̫̼̊ͨ̌̚ͅ ͯ ̪͈ͮ̀ ̛̆ͥͬ̃̂ ̮̼̥̙̠ͭ ̈͗̀̊̽̒ ͓̱͚̠̣̰̿͂ ̖̹ ̹̻͉̬̟̪̣̈͡ ̞̤͒̆ͯ̍̕ ̙̹͈̱͝ ̇̾҉͚̮͎͓̥̮̻ ͈̘̖͇̞̤ͯͤ̾ͣ́̎͂ ͑̓͐̇͏ ̖̬̥͈̫̟̙̀̽͊ ͍̣̺͖̠̿̓̿̈́̿̔̅ ̘̯̀̐̾̐̑͌ͥ ̹̦̞̯͉͓̭͂ ̧͂̌ ̘̘̰̖̺ͨ͞ ͔̥̈́ͪͮ͟ ̶̱̝́̈̏ͥ̐ͪ̂ ̭͎̠ͪͭͧ̎ ̱̹͉̱̿̿̋̿̾͡ ͖ ̜̠̹͖̝̦̰ͯ̆̂ ͍͚̫ͥ͊ ̝̳ͪ̊ͨ̂ ̢̗̣̰̮̦̭ͫ̾ ̜̦͚͇͓̖̝͋̄ͣ̈́̕ ͙̞͉͂̕ ͑̌̀҉̪̘͕͇̺̥ ͩ͏̦̣ ̯̩̦̺̹̭̓ͮ͂͝ ͔̺̲̜͍̓ͯ̔̑̊ͅ ̫̫̞̓̃ͦ̊̑̉͠ ̠̺͖̐̌ͮ̓͗ ̮͇̣̮̂͌̊̿͞ ̽̋̒̈́͏̖͔̪͈̖̭̠ ̣̮̠͎͚̣̦̊̒̏ ̐̈́̈͊͏͓̣̳ͅ ̧͂ͭͮ͐̐̑ ̠͇̲͙͗̊̽ ̸̘͚̤̋ͧ͊͛ͥ ̲͔̭̟̼͍̓ ̶ͪ̾ͭ ̥̪͓ ͍͖̲̪̩̈́͊͛̂ͮ̋̂͡ ͕̲̘͍̳̘̔ͥ̂ͅ ̺͂͊̅ͩ͌͜ ̨͙̼͔̼̜̪̎ͦ̂ͅ ̙ͩ̕ͅ ̲͉̠̎ͭͪ͋̍ ͒͆͊̍͂̄͆ ̫̭ͨ̉̂̓͡ͅ ̞͔̤͕̥͒ͫ̄̚ ̨̠̬͉̟͎̼̭̾͑ͧ͐͗ ̿̄͗̅̚͡ ̤̜̏͂̊ͥͦ͌ͫ ̳̤̺̙͈ͦͧ̎͞ ͈͔̤̺ͩ͗ ̛͕̞̺̊ͤͅ ̡̅ ̴̟̻̦̩͍͍͑̓ ͂͊ͫ ̷̠̻̤ ̙͔̼͇͍̮̌ͪͭ ͚̞͖͚͈̌͒̿͋ͥ ̮͎̖̠͚͜ͅ ̴ͪ̿̿ ̞̫̤̪͖̿ͨ̔͢ ̸͉̖͈̩̦̤̈̄ ̳̱͔̈̔̀͗ͮͧͩ ̝̪̜̔̒͗͆ ̤̘̜͈͛ ̨̻̝̤̬̳͚̒̇̌ ͕́ͯ̄̓̉̆͝ ̦͚̜̭̰̈́̍̎͡ ̺̘̝̅͆ ҉̙͈̝̣͈ ̩͎̘̣̼͎̀ͣ́̓͘ͅ ̟̖̙͇̦̦̱̔͌ ̧̐ ͕̈ ̝̞̠̼̫̤ͨ́̈́͗̏͝ͅ ̴̭̲̀̿̄̑̉ ̺̻̳͉̲͚͇͆̏͑ ̙̦͚̑͒̏̋̅͜ ̲͎͙̼͊͢ ͙̲̦̹ͥ ̖̗̮̯ͬ̍ ̼̙͔͝ ̢̲̟͉̹̂̈́̾ͧͬͬͣ ̰͊̏ͥ͋ ̲͍̗̘̓ͯ̾͂ͫ̂͂ ͧ͒̂ͪ̒̓҉ ̦͠ ͊҉̻ ͔̘̹̹̓̃͗́̂̚ͅ ̷̮̙͖ͫͥͣ̓ͥ ҉̜ ̶͙̝͐̀ͤ̿ ͚̉ͭ̔͢ ̣̟̺̻̪ͤ̉͛͊ͫͬ͠ ̙̪̹̱̙͖͍̏͋̍̽ ̪͎͙̊̈́ͥ ̵̰̞͖̝ ̲̭͇͔́̉̍ͧ͞ ̨͎ ̲̥͎̯͖̲̌͌͊̆̉ͭͨ͘ ̢̦̺͋ͯ͛͒̔̀ ̟͈̳̎͡ ̘͍̩̝ ̸̖͇͍ͯ̈́̽̂̌ ̜̪͉̖͕ͫ̋̄ͬ̀ͭ͂͢ ̷̜͈ ̾ͣ̓̊͒̏͏ ̟ ͔̪̯̟͕͒ͨͤ͆ͭ̏̒ ͒͏͎̳͎̗̥̹͇ ̣̻͔̙̤͍̗̈͑̓̔ ͔̰ ̫̘̲͍̏ ̮̉ͦ͒ͬͤ ͇̜͕̦̑ͥ̇ ͏͍͈̙ ̜͕̜̥̻̊ ͣ҉̤̜̫͉̹̥͓ ̳̈́ͨ͂ͪ̐͗̽ ̣͚̲̗̚ ̵ͩͩͮ̄ ͇̗̖̫̣̉͒̏ ̦̻̺͖̀̋̽̇̎ͫ̈ ̛͔͔̞ ̝̯ͬ̀ͣ̔ ̙̥̯̥̾ͨͦͩ̚ ̳͙̈ͪ̏̐̊͂͡ ̪̞̺̠͎̦͔ͤ̒̓ͤ ̭͈̤͕̠̂̃̊ ̹̘̘̤͎̪͉̃ͭ̅ͧ̏ͥ̋ ̖͓̣͓̿̄ ̨ ̵̎ͬͬ͋̓͐̔ ̮̫̱̍̏̋͟ ̧ͪ̓ ̰ ͓̺̟͍̣̇̒ͅ ̛̙̭̱̄̋̓ ̼̱̬͙͙̾͗ ͉̓̉ͦͭ͠ ̪̦̻͎ͫͤ͊͊ͦ ̻̯͎̹̬ ͚͍͖̱̮̦̻̿̀͜ ̥̮̝̟̩͉ͬ̈́̅͂̑̚ͅ ̫̙̟̱̪̖̞̂̒̓͂ͬ ̖͕̮̋̆ͭ͌̇̊̕ ̷̟ͮ̅̽̃̅ ̣̥͙̭̙ ̙̟̬̬̱̤͎́̅ͩ͊̄ ̷͎̄̽̐ ̆͛̽ ̡ͭ͆ͪͤͮ̌̑ ̙̜̹̤̗̀͛̽̿ͪ ̼̦̎ͦͨ̊́̍̈͠ ̜̠̼̪̗̳̟͆̿ͮ͠ ͙̞̉̋ͦ̒ͭ̾̋ ̢̊ ̨̠͓̭̪ͬ̀͋̅̊ ̞̘̮̻̬̬̥̀̆͜ ̫̠̣̭̲ͭͨ̓͛́̑ ͈̗̤̖̗ ̼̮͓̈́͒͑̄ ̙͕̻̇̓̽̌̉ͣ̚ ̬ͬ́ ̼̘̉̂̉ͭ ̩̎̇͐ͫ̌ ̳̻͑ͪ ̺͍̣̫̄͌̎̃͝ ̴̋́ ͉͇͔͔̞͉͛ͮ ͏͕̻̱̮̲̻͕ ̼̻̫̝̻͕͌̒ͥ̅̀̚̚ͅ ̦̝̖̲̯͚ͤ͋̎ ͭͪͬ̑ͫ҉̪͚̲̳̘̮ͅ ̬͛ͭ̄͑̇ͫ ͚̤͚͎̻͚̟̾ͣͨ̽̕ ̷̭̹̗͚̟́̓͒̊̊ ͙̖̈̒͊̌͘ͅ ͑̒̏ ̻͎̤̟̞̄̽̈́̉̒͂͂͝ ̣̯͚̪̲̀̆̆̌̆̏̋ ̹͆̍͂͋ͭ̓̚ ͙̟̃ ͍̿ͥ̄͘ ̴̯͖̠̹̥ͯͬͣ͗ͪ̏̎ ͕͋ ͎͔̈̍̓ͪ̕ ̨̺̻̫̫͓ ̟̞̯͔̞͌͜ ͕̞̟̦̊ͬͬ̆͂ ̬̤͇̺̻ͣͣ͂ͨ̒̂͛ ̞̜̼̗̣̫̌ͥͮ̍͋͗ͭ ̬̭ͣͩ͋̄̀ͮ̔ ͍̖ͭ̉͜ͅ ̺̥̮̤̝͎̦̽͛̃̍͒ ̮̰̤̗̘͐͋̍̋͋ͧ ̪̯̜̙ ͆͑͒̒̉͐͛͏̜̙ ̪̞̏ͬ̔̿ͨͅ ̃̉͑ͭ̀̄͆ ̩̞̱̮̆ͦ͐͒̋ͥͫ ̖͞ ̧͕̪̮̝̼͕̳͐̅͋ ̤̲̬̻ͫ̉ ̶͚̯̇ ̥̫̤͙͉̩͒͛ͦ̓͟ ̠̠̖̙ͬͅͅ ̛̟͐͛͐̐ͨ̈̊ ̡͓ ̶̰̩͉̖͚̏͋ ̗̭̪́͐̾ͣ͗ͤ̎ ̖̠͚͕ͤ̆́ͅ ̯ ̪͍̫̱̙͍͂̓ ͙̭̒̊͒ͭ̈́̂͜ͅ ̖͎͔͌ ͉ ̧̩̐̈̓ ͚̦̱̘̥̪̬̀̈́̅̄͑ ̙̈̒͂͛ ̻̤̱̬͖͊̆̈ͮ ̠̮̭͚̅̋̎̆̃ ̗̘̪͈͈͔̹ ̌ ̵̼̰̟͂ͣ̈́̿ͅ ͕͙̗͚̌ͧ̉̄̄͆͠ ͨ̅ͭ̊͑̍͆͏͕̭̩ ͎̖̘͕͗͜ ̱̞̜̼̼̠̐ͯ̄̊ ̤̟̼͖̥̤ͮͥ ̲ ̥̞̜̮͎̮̦ͯ̒ͫ ̗̝ ͇̲̯̩̗̩͑̑̽̚ͅ  
͚̠̱̑ͫ͐ͧ̊̓̌ ͍̣͍̤̇ͨ ̨̠̜́̊ͬ̂ ̯͉̖̙͙̗ͮͤ͂̍ͧͣ ̝ͣ̽͝ ͚̼̻̲̬̱̗̈ͦ͒͢ ̺̣̦̭͙͕̖ͫ ̜͍̜̙̕ ̩̼̹̝̫̺ͮ͑̆͂̓ ̔ ̡̣͉͐̌̽ ̵͔̋̇̄ͪ̽̌ ̗̼̲̯̦̊̃͗ͦ͗̂́ ̸̦͎̉͋̂͊̚ ̛͚̞̯̟̓ ̺̜̈̔̐̿͊ͮ̋͢ ͝ ̲͖͉̻̱̺̔ͫ̈́̅̌̚ ̩̰͑ͣ͊̔͌͆ͬ ̬̥̱̋̊ͧ̀͊͆͘ ̞ͦ̅̿̃ ̘͔̥̤ͩ̂ͣͩ̐͌̂͘ ͇ͨͬ͋̄ͦ̅ͭ ͚̪͈̜̩͂ͣ͛ͬ͗͒ ͍̹͖̅͂ ̶̻̜͖̙ͭͤ̒̇̎͋͆ ͔̞ͬ̑ͥ̚ ̫͔͒ ̞̮̍̽ͦ̇̂ ̬̤͔̻͚̻̝̍̿ͩ̃ͨ̿̎͞ ̝̰̜͉̱̬̿͊͞ ̞̘̞̞̱̜̳̋̀̑ͩ̍̀ ̠̯̮̇ ̠̰ͦ̏̌̌̇ ̰̞͉̽ͅ ̣̝̲̔̍̍̃̀ͬ̚ ̢̖ͨͧͩ͌ ̤̦ͯͯ ͔̦̘͖̝̥ ̵͇̫͍̭̪̗̲̒̎͛ͬ̐ͤ̚ ̶͕̝̭̺̝̮̪͒ͣ̌ͩ͋ ̨̘͓̮̫̯̪̗̑̊͋̆̚ ̫͂͗̔̈͒ͤ ̲̖̐ ̜̖̞͉̼̂ ̢̒̈́͒ ͣ̽͊͌̏ ͥ̑̈̊̂ ̛̘̣̖̳͆ͯ̏̾̊̑̑ ̱̠̝̜̖̋̊ͫ͒ͮ͋͑ ͤ̇̄ͤͪ̋̍ ̵̻̘͚̫̋ͥͬ ̴̎̾̑ͥͭ̏̚ ̠̱̏ͪ́̊̿ ͎͇̜͚̮̘͗͂̿͆͌ ̢͚͔̭̅ͨ͌ ̖ͪ̒̄ ͕̱̠ ͔̻͕̰̅ ̖̄͒̆̄ͥ́̽͟ ̗͇̝͓͎̭̭ͣ̈̾̐ ̴̼͍͈͇̝ͯ̌̅̈͛ ̢̱͇̰̗̪͓ͯ̒͋͆ͦ ̸͈͈͎̾͋ͯ ̊ͨ ̧͈̝͆̆ ̖͈͖̲ͦ ̞̬̼̳͔͓̋ͮ͌̃̃̍͗ ͨ̀ͩ̎ͪ̚҉̪̗ ̸̻̜̽̿ ̩͑̈́ͨ̐̓ͪ ̙̠̳̮̳͗̅̍ ̹̄͊̓ͤ̒͡ ̐ ̣̥̑͘ ͈͓̦̯̻̙̂ͪ͆ ̜̺̮̙͚̮̖̃ͣͨͧ ͊ͦ̈͌ͪ̚͏͍̝ ̲̗͈̮̺͉̫͠ ͎͔̹̖ ̺͎̪̰͓̥͚̉̒͛͆ ̘̌ͭ̃ͤͪ̅ ͆̈҉̞ ̡͌͂̾ͧ̄̽ͦ ̰̠̏ͫͬͥͧ͟ ҉͈ ͙̱͓͓̗̮̐̆ͮͮͦ ̄͡ ͕͚ͤ̆́̅̑̑ ͍͚̻̹̦̖̈ͨ͒ͯ͆̈  
̼͊ͥ͒̅͜ ̵͉͒̽͆̌̾ ͉̯͚̣̔͒͂ͬ̆ ͖̳̼̟̟̥̺͡ ̵̞͕̈ͧ̈́ ͈̙̥̤̞̓ͪ̽ͭ͟ ̢͇̜̤̹̳͙͒̏͑͂̿̒ͅ ̢͛͆ ̵̘̺̱͕̳ͩͧ̈ͯ̊ ̋͊̐̈̊ ͉̬̹ ̵̮̗͇̮̦͙̳ ͉͙ͯ͟ ̮̣̫ͧ͒͂͒̆ͥ̈ͅ ̰̊͛̓̆ͭ ̼̩͓̖͉̦̽ͥ̓̋̈́ͥͅ ̤͎̩͍̻̒̈ ̈́̄̊̊͢ ̹̞̿̋ͅ ̷̫̰͈͍̖̰̂ͅ ̦͙̜͔̓ͨ̑̋ͣ̕ ͈̼̟̪̿̌̄̂̄ ̗̪̩ͫͤ̆̅͜ ̨̟̦̒ͭ̽ͪͅ ̻̝̀͟ ̧͔͉̓ ̖͈͎͚̼͎̻̾̆̓̽ͫͮ̆ ͎͔̅̔̂̽̑̍ ̫̬̬̙͇̤͝ ͚̠̥̹͎͉͙͝ ͉̈́ͧ̎̊ͯ̉ ͈̜͂̃̎̒ͪ͒͒ ̫̜̋ͮ̂͟ ͉̼̓ͨͣ̅ͥ͆͛͘ ̥͎̘̙ͦ́͆͐ ̖͙͎͚͑̾ͣ̎̌͑ ̱̜̟̮ͪ̃ ̬̞̝͓͖͛͊̿̿ͩ̑ͥ ͇̪̱̗̤͐ͩͣ̾ ̱́̎ͤ ̖ͦ̐͗ͤ̊̏͢ ̑̔͐ͯ̓͏̘͇ ̤ͬ͌͒͝ ͇̝̜͈́͑̒͒ ̮̙̰̤̾͠ ̶͉͇̭͔̃ ̦͕͊̂̽̏̍ ̳̯̬̫̻̅̋̊ͬͦ̋̚ͅ ̲͙̖̾ͨ̓ ̡̦̳̑͑ ͊͊ͤ̔͏̭̥̼̩̝ ̤͛̓̾ͨͧ͋̀ ͕̿ͮ̀ͪͤ ̸̻͕͖̣͓̭̈͒̉ͣͅ ̡̪͙͍̯̻̽̅ ̮̩ ͪͮ͜ ̃͊͆҉̫͉̩̣̟̺ͅ ̡͈ͣͤ ͎͕͈̻̦͇͂̐̉̋̽͂̎ ̼̫̮̗̲ͤ̊͝ ͥ̊ ̢͛͋͌ ̨͔̼̩̦̫̣̑ ̮͕ͣͪ̓ͥ͢ ͍̠̱̣̖̐ͨ̎̅̔̈́̅ ̷̭̲͊͛͗̅͊ ̞̠̮͙͕͊ͣ̎ ̰̞̳͉̣̱͎ͭͤ̋͢ ͐̀̒̊́͏͖̗̼̞  
̺̗̝͊̿̆̉̔ͫ́͜ ͩͯ͋͏̠̤̠̲ ̯͓̲̰̂ ̺͡ ̪̖̼̟͎̪͂͆ͤ́̓ ̳̩̹ ͔̱̟͕̣ ̖̹̼ ̯͙͇̳͕͛ ͈̖̠͕ͦ̒̆ͬ ̰͉͓̈̓̐̈̅ͮ ͓̭̎ͪ͌ͪ͝ ̻͎̦̂ͪͬͅ ̶̪̣͎̯͖̇̆ͧ ͯ͛̌ ̝̭̉̐ͥ̌̌ ̥͇̭ͯ̑̐ͤ͊ ̧͚̩̜̖̖ ̨̤̭̔̏͊̍̿ͪ ͔̈̓̍͠ ̡̝̫̦̋̐͂̅̌ͣͣ ̖͕̣̜̱̱̬ͥͤ ̪͛ͅ ̻͚ͤ͐͗̔ ̲͓̺̩͇ͥͅͅ ̧̱̹͍͔͉̈́̍ͦͮ͂̑̆ͅ ́ͪ͛ͨͪ̽҉ ̼̦̦͖̃͝ ̸͔̭̭̜̹͗̃̂ ̰̼̥͇̪̔͠ ̦̮̩̟̉͡ͅ ̒ͣ͊́ ̴̯̈͒̎ ͇̮ͣ̍ͧͣͫ͌̾ ̮̪͕̜͇̭̱̊ͮͤ̓ͦ ̹̳̱̏̍́͢ ̬ͩ͆͑͋͜ ͖ ̳̤̻̞̘̝̾̒̎̊ ͕ͫ ͈̬̱̓ ̺͇̭̝̲͓ͅ ̰͎̱̺ͦ͊̌ͯ͐ͫ̎ ̦̘̞͇̓̑̅͗ͯ̿͊ ̠ͧ̅̿ ̖͉͍̰̞̈́̑̈́ͫ̈́ ̪̰͙̫̹̱̩̽ͣͬͭ̋̊̃͜ ̴̯͇̺̙͂ͯͯ ̣͉͖̋̀̾̂̎ ̎ͧ̈ ̰̓͊̐ͣ͊͑́͘ ̪̱̜͉͔̖͙̈̂̄̅͋͐ ̴ͯ̄ ̯̖̮̘̥͋ͦ͌̚ ̷̫͍͙̜̳ ͇̯͔̜̞̯͓̑͗ ͖̥̂ ̟̺͈͚͐̽͌ ̨͙̭̥̮̱͚ ͈̮͚͛ ̘̰ͦ̊ͪ̇̋ͦͯ ̸̾̃͒̌̒ ͈̦͍̩̱̦͕ ̥̩̑ͯ̏̒̎̂ͯͅ ̖̫̹͉̥̺͔̿̈́̾͒̄ͭ̈ ̨̪͔̺͗ͥ̂͛̓̃̆ ̮͇̝̟̪̪̙̂̔̿ ̨͈̤̐̒̃̐ͩ͋̎ ͬ̌͑͗̽̊҉̼̗ ̘ ͫ͟ ̩͕̤̉͋͛͆ ̮ ͈̟ͭ ̟́̽ͪ͛ ̘̪̘̝͓͙͡ ̸̻̜̣͖̺ ̵̫̙̘̬͓̆ͯ ̲̹ ͍̱͍̗̪̓͑̊ ̛̫̪̝̼̅̀ͯ́ͩ̓ͅ ̶͚̜ͭ̒̽ͨͪ ̠͉͎̞̖̳̆ ̸̭̠͖̖͖̝ͧ̚ ̷͖̘̙͓̋ͥ̾̃̔ ̟̹̫͋͑̇̾ ̹̥̼̹͖͐̕ ̸̑͆̍ͯͫ̑͊ ̜̺͕̐͊̾͌̾ͯ ̛͍̘͕̺̏̐ͥ̆̋̈̅ ̨͇̬̮͙̘̫̟̆ ͍͊̇̆̚ ̪̲̻̩̲ͩ͜ ̜͑͌͠ ͎̹̖̰̭ ̲ͪ͞ ͑ͭͤ͐̿̄͏͈͓͍̫͓̣͈ ̫̇͒̂̾ͯ͛ ̨̫͕̳̪ͅ ̍͆ͧ̑́̚ ̠͇̘͕̩ͥͫ̑ ͊ ̯̰̫̮̔̿́͑̇̊̚ ̪̣̦̬̟̿́̐ͮ̒ ̮̲͖̦̝̺̟̄̈̓̌̚͟ ̜͎̰̰̺ ̢̤͑͂̒͆͌̔ ̨̯̺̌ ̴̘̂̈̏̈́̓ͪ ͬ̓̉ͫ̚҉̹̲̩͇̣ͅ  
̬̻̤͙̬̝̰͐ͦ̀͌ ̲̩͍͖͠ ̟̤̩̣̍ͦ͂̿͒̈́ ̟̠͍̆ͧ͌ ͖͙ͩ̀͑ͥͯ̾̇ ̼̞̾ͬ̓ ̵ͥ͐ͣͫ ̉͊͌̎ ͍͍̦̯̃̿ͫ̾͋ ͓̣̬̲̟̩̼ͩ̕  
̺̗̝͊̿̆̉̔ͫ́͜ ͩͯ͋͏̠̤̠̲ ̯͓̲̰̂ ̺͡ ̪̖̼̟͎̪͂͆ͤ́̓ ̳̩̹ ͔̱̟͕̣ ̖̹̼ ̯͙͇̳͕͛ ͈̖̠͕ͦ̒̆ͬ ̰͉͓̈̓̐̈̅ͮ ͓̭̎ͪ͌ͪ͝ ̻͎̦̂ͪͬͅ ̶̪̣͎̯͖̇̆ͧ ͯ͛̌ ̝̭̉̐ͥ̌̌ ̥͇̭ͯ̑̐ͤ͊ ̧͚̩̜̖̖ ̨̤̭̔̏͊̍̿ͪ ͔̈̓̍͠ ̡̝̫̦̋̐͂̅̌ͣͣ ̖͕̣̜̱̱̬ͥͤ ̪͛ͅ ̻͚ͤ͐͗̔ ̲͓̺̩͇ͥͅͅ ̧̱̹͍͔͉̈́̍ͦͮ͂̑̆ͅ ́ͪ͛ͨͪ̽҉ ̼̦̦͖̃͝ ̸͔̭̭̜̹͗̃̂ ̰̼̥͇̪̔͠ ̦̮̩̟̉͡ͅ ̒ͣ͊́ ̴̯̈͒̎ ͇̮ͣ̍ͧͣͫ͌̾ ̮̪͕̜͇̭̱̊ͮͤ̓ͦ ̹̳̱̏̍́͢ ̬ͩ͆͑͋͜ ͖ ̳̤̻̞̘̝̾̒̎̊ ͕ͫ ͈̬̱̓ ̺͇̭̝̲͓ͅ ̰͎̱̺ͦ͊̌ͯ͐ͫ̎ ̦̘̞͇̓̑̅͗ͯ̿͊ ̠ͧ̅̿ ̖͉͍̰̞̈́̑̈́ͫ̈́ ̪̰͙̫̹̱̩̽ͣͬͭ̋̊̃͜ ̴̯͇̺̙͂ͯͯ ̣͉͖̋̀̾̂̎ ̎ͧ̈ ̰̓͊̐ͣ͊͑́͘ ̪̱̜͉͔̖͙̈̂̄̅͋͐ ̴ͯ̄ ̯̖̮̘̥͋ͦ͌̚ ̷̫͍͙̜̳ ͇̯͔̜̞̯͓̑͗ ͖̥̂ ̟̺͈͚͐̽͌ ̨͙̭̥̮̱͚ ͈̮͚͛ ̘̰ͦ̊ͪ̇̋ͦͯ ̸̾̃͒̌̒ ͈̦͍̩̱̦͕ ̥̩̑ͯ̏̒̎̂ͯͅ ̖̫̹͉̥̺͔̿̈́̾͒̄ͭ̈ ̨̪͔̺͗ͥ̂͛̓̃̆ ̮͇̝̟̪̪̙̂̔̿ ̨͈̤̐̒̃̐ͩ͋̎ ͬ̌͑͗̽̊҉̼̗ ̘ ͫ͟ ̩͕̤̉͋͛͆ ̮ ͈̟ͭ ̟́̽ͪ͛ ̘̪̘̝͓͙͡ ̸̻̜̣͖̺ ̵̫̙̘̬͓̆ͯ ̲̹ ͍̱͍̗̪̓͑̊ ̛̫̪̝̼̅̀ͯ́ͩ̓ͅ ̶͚̜ͭ̒̽ͨͪ ̠͉͎̞̖̳̆ ̸̭̠͖̖͖̝ͧ̚ ̷͖̘̙͓̋ͥ̾̃̔ ̟̹̫͋͑̇̾ ̹̥̼̹͖͐̕ ̸̑͆̍ͯͫ̑͊ ̜̺͕̐͊̾͌̾ͯ ̛͍̘͕̺̏̐ͥ̆̋̈̅ ̨͇̬̮͙̘̫̟̆ ͍͊̇̆̚ ̪̲̻̩̲ͩ͜ ̜͑͌͠ ͎̹̖̰̭ ̲ͪ͞ ͑ͭͤ͐̿̄͏͈͓͍̫͓̣͈ ̫̇͒̂̾ͯ͛ ̨̫͕̳̪ͅ ̍͆ͧ̑́̚ ̠͇̘͕̩ͥͫ̑ ͊ ̯̰̫̮̔̿́͑̇̊̚ ̪̣̦̬̟̿́̐ͮ̒ ̮̲͖̦̝̺̟̄̈̓̌̚͟ ̜͎̰̰̺ ̢̤͑͂̒͆͌̔ ̨̯̺̌ ̴̘̂̈̏̈́̓ͪ ͬ̓̉ͫ̚҉̹̲̩͇̣ͅ  
̬̻̤͙̬̝̰͐ͦ̀͌ ̲̩͍͖͠ ̟̤̩̣̍ͦ͂̿͒̈́ ̟̠͍̆ͧ͌ ͖͙ͩ̀͑ͥͯ̾̇ ̼̞̾ͬ̓ ̵ͥ͐ͣͫ ̉͊͌̎ ͍͍̦̯̃̿ͫ̾͋ ͓̣̬̲̟̩̼ͩ̕

 

“It’s a game,” says Crowley.

 

When Aziraphale fails to respond, he tries again.

 

“It’s - it’s -” he drags a hand through his hair. “You get it, don’t you, Angel? Remember what she said? War? At the airbase? It’s a game to her. It - it always is it’s -”

 

Aziraphale, barely able to stomach the sight of the girl with her gore streaked hands and now their own feathers amidst the bloody fray, caves entirely at Crowley’s manic blatherings. Clutching his stomach, he stumbles to the nearest shelf and steadies himself against it, pulling deep breaths, swallowing down a swell of nausea.

 

“Angel?”

 

Crowley is beside him in an instant.

 

“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

 

“M’fine,” Azirpahale grits, but the uncharacteristic slur to his words gives him away immediately.

 

Still, he tries to persuade away the concern on his friend’s face.

 

“No, really, my dear, I’m okay. This is - just, I -”

 

“Batshit,” Crowley finishes for him, and the worry lines on his brow ease in response to the angel’s weak laugh.

 

“Yes. Rather.”

 

“But… you see it, don’t you?” Crowley asks, clearly struck upon a golden epiphany and not wanting to lose the lustre of its momentum. “I mean, think about it. _She_ always treated it like - like some big game, and - and the whole bloody, weird _balance_ thing -”

 

“Equilibrium,” corrects Aziraphale, and Crowley laughs through his nose.

 

“Oh you’re right as rain, eh? Yes, _thank you_ , Angel, _that_.

 

“Anyway,” he paces in erratic circles, tossing his hands this way and that, wings rustling like leaves let loose of their autumn limbs. 

 

“Yes - just _think about it_ . The kids’re here to balance out with the Horsemen. So - so Pepper’s gonna have to - fuck I dunno - maybe try an’ beat War? Or something? And War has to fight back? Isn’t that the whole _fwghg_ bloody give’n’take of them?”

 

“She did say ‘we’re winning’ didn’t she,” Aziraphale murmurs contemplatively.

 

Crowely turns back to him with wild eyes, even the angel ones upon his skin widening with surprise.

 

“Ex _actly_ ,” he snaps his fingers for good measure.

 

“And - and so I think - maybe, that - that -”

 

He stops, pacing and gesticulating and panting like a beast starved for a drop of water, and gnaws at his lip, careful of the eye-of-a-needle small irises that bejewel his jawline.

 

“I think we have to play it, too,” he finally says, and Aziraphale scoffs.

 

“Beg your pardon?” 

 

The angel fixes his friend with the most incredulous stare he can manage, and, even sans the assistance of his extra eyes, it’s probably the third best one he’s ever given. 

 

(The first went down in their history book of quibbles when Crowley turned his nose up at their first meal of oysters, but that’s neither here, there, or anywhere.)

 

But, as he did then, Crowley waves his hands, dispelling the confusion.

 

“Not literally. But, I mean, this whole bloody _thing_ has been operating on the thinnest possible nuance. And this whole _place_ is propped up by damn philosophy of all things! We can’t look at it literally, Angel. That’s not gonna work here.”

 

“Huh,” breathes Aziraphale, the muddle in his head shoving a few solid pieces of sense together. 

 

“Very observant of you, my dear,” he says, “Did some of my brains swap over to you, as well?”

 

“Sod off,” Crowley grins, but the levity is quickly stolen by another frown.

 

There is little to smile about when a girl is sat catatonic and covered in blood not five feet away. Similarly strange, though, she hasn’t said a word between Crowley’s fits of revelation, and the demon turns back to her, debating only a split second before planting himself opposite her, kneeling just at the edge of the gut-stuff gameboard. 

 

“What are you -?”

 

Crowley holds up a finger, ordering the angel’s silence which he gives with a bite of his tongue and a nervous flutter of his pulse.

 

“Pepper?” 

 

Crowley asks so carefully, his tone a pane of glass teetering atop a cliff’s edge

 

“Can I play?”

 

He brings his hands to the feathers still balanced on their bone, and Pepper drags her eyes down to watch his movements. It’s not much, but it’s something. An indication. She’s still there.

 

“Are we…” Crowley swallows, cherry-plucks his words, “we’re supposed to, aren’t we? You can tell us. And we can - can help you. We can win it together, Pepper, and then you can come home, right? S’that how it goes?”

 

“Crowley -”

 

“We’re here to help. We’re going to help you.”

 

“ _Crowley_!”

 

“ _What_?” 

 

“ _Look_.”

 

The demon, his eyes glued to Pepper’s hand as it makes its way to his, flicks his gaze up for a fraction of a second, but the sight they meet fixes them there entirely.

 

The grey-thick, spectral fog has returned, surrounding their party of three in an unsettlingly strategic formation. Like before, indeterminate shapes churn out from it in ceaseless rotation, each one infuriatingly familiar, but they refuse to remain corporeal long enough for angel or demon to place a finger. 

 

As they watch, Pepper - unwatched - pushes a lumpy bit of flesh through the mire of blood, away from the feathers, and says, “King me.”

 

And the spectres disappear, the bookshop returning to view, as does air to the lungs of each present body in a gush of relief.

 

“Well,” says Aziraphale, eyes meeting Crowley’s. “I rather think you’re on the money.”

 

“Real brave of you to admit that, Angel but, uh, any idea what the _fuck_ that is?”

 

“Not a _damn_ clue, my dear.”

 

Crowley laughs, a frazzled, hazy sound, and tries again to implore from Pepper an explanation.

 

“You gotta work with us, kid,” he offers her his upturned palms. “ _Anything_ , Pepper. Anything at all, we want to help but -”

 

He shudders out a broken breath as a hand comes to rest on his shoulder: Aziraphale’s, soft and strong. 

 

“Angel, I-”

 

“Shh,” Aziraphale nods at the girl. “Just let’s watch a moment.”

 

So they do, Crowley in bewilderment, Aziraphale with a half dawned understanding forming in the back of his mind. For an indecipherable slink of seconds into minutes into unrecognizable ticks of the cosmic clock, they watch Pepper. As she sits, and silently cries, and drags her finger in bloodied spirals. 

 

“ _Angel, this’s ridi-_ ”

 

“Shh!” Aziraphale hisses and points frantically.

 

The pattern has ruptured, Pepper’s finger stalling upon a bit of gore as if deliberating its fate.

 

On cue, just as before, the fog returns. The spectres. The roiling miasma of them. And then Pepper pushes the piece away, and they dissolve.

 

“King me,” she says, and Aziraphale exhales, Crowley with him.

 

A long, winding moment of silence stretches out, filling the room with a sinister expectation. Aziraphale, at length, braves it, approaches it with the question burning his tongue.

 

“Death said that the Horsemen were here, correct?”

 

The angel looks to his demon.

 

“Yeah?” Crowley leaves it open for debate. 

 

Apparently, there’s no such thing as certainty anymore.

 

“Well then,” Aziraphale opens his arms and spins in a half circle. “Where is War? Shouldn’t she be present?” 

 

Briskly, he helps his friend to his feet.

 

“Seems awfully unfair to play a game against an unseen opponent,” he continues. “Wouldn’t you say?”

 

“I - I guess?” Crowley has mostly only ever cheated at every greasy game of poker he’s sunk equally cheap bets into, so, again, does not place any conviction on his reply. “What exactly are you getting at?”

 

Aziraphale smiles, a derisive sneer of his teeth.

 

“I do not think War is here at all,” he says plainly. “ _I_ think that _They_ are planning something entirely beyond what we presumed and, indeed, are exploiting War for their own purposes.”

 

“What, you mean -?” Crowley jerks his thumb up, and then down, and Aziraphale nods.

 

“There’s too much ambiguity, Crowley. None of this goes along with anything we’ve expected or anything that Death has told us.”

 

“Hold on, back up,” Crowley shuts his eyes - while the angel ones take it upon themselves to blink furiously in confusion - and pinches the bridge of his nose. “What th’heaven are they using her for?”

 

“I haven’t a clue.”

 

“Oh that’s bloody helpful.”

 

“But it makes sense!”

 

“Oi, calm down, Angel,” Crowley takes a step back from his friend. “I’m not saying you’re _wrong_ , I’m just saying it’s all a bit… well…”

 

He shrugs helplessly.

 

“Batshit, you know?”

 

Aziraphale huffs, red at the cheeks and not for the glow of the demon horn upon his head.

 

“Well,” he says, “have you any better ideas?” 

 

“Not a one,” answers Crowley promptly.

 

“Then do please shut up and let me think.”

 

The demon sniffs, “Fair enough,” and sinks back down to the floor, resuming his observation of Pepper, this time with the addition of a petulant pout. 

 

They have their tiffs, yes, but sometimes the angel can be so bloody irksome. Now is no exception, and Crowley is happy to let his friend drive himself up a wall with these half-baked theories.

 

Unfortunately, the angel chooses to do so out loud with the addition of some truly spectacular pacing, the ferocity of which easily puts Crowley’s best, sauntering lurk to shame.

 

“Do you recall what she said to us? In the shop, earlier.”

 

“ _Do I remember_ ,” mutters Crowley. “Of course I bloody do! Seared into my damn corneas.”

 

“Not _for_ us,” the Angel iterates anyway. “Whatever called her to action was not meant for us.”

 

“Brilliant deduction there, Angel.”

 

Aziraphale ignores the dig and continues, “She said it was coming, and that it is not for us.”

 

Crowley, with a great, impatient sigh, turns from Pepper and stretches out his right wing, blocking Aziraphale from completing his shuffling route.

 

“You got anything of substance, Angel, or you just going mad?”

 

Aziraphale frowns at him.

 

“I’m _thinking_ , Crowley.”

 

“Well, think _better_ ,” says the demon. “R’else you’re gonna make _me_ crazy.”

 

“ _Well_ , maybe if you would care to _help_ instead of sitting there…”

 

Laughing bitterly, Crowley drags another hand through his hair, narrowly avoiding burning his wrist on Aziraphale’s halos.

 

“You know what?” He says. “You’re right. Except, all I know s’we came here to find the bloody Horsemen and kids, and look! We found a kid! Can I get a fucking wahoo?”

 

“Crowley -”

 

“But now _you’re_ saying that everything All-Knowing-Death told us is wrong, _and_ we might have an extra dose of bureaucratic _bullshit_ on top of it all. That about right? Does that help?”

 

Tears singe the corner of Crowley’s angel eye while the demon one remains staunchly dry, but he can meet neither of them to Aziraphale’s wounded expression, so he hunches further into himself and glares at his lap.

 

“I’m sorry, my dear,” the angel says, looking pityingly upon his friend. “If I could snap my fingers and fix this, I would. But you heard It, too, you heard what Death said. Even It does not know the parameters of this. The only assurance we had was the Horsemen and the children. Come to find even _that_ is wrong? Well,” he chuckles, “color me unimpressed.”

 

“You can say pissed off, you know,” Crowley mumbles. “No one’s gonna slap you on the wrist anymore.”

 

“Ah, well. Yes, I suppose I could…”

 

Crowley sighs, but it’s more put on than genuine this time.

 

“You’re such an infuriating bastard, you know that?”

 

Blushing heavily, Aziraphale fails to hide his smile, and Crowley’s face softens around his own as he looks up at his friend.

 

“And of course I have to get bloody stuck with you in bloody purgatory…”

 

“At least we _know_ now,” Aziraphale interrupts. “Or, well, not entirely I suppose. But imagine if we wasted away here hoping for War to show up?”

 

“And what, we’re not gonna waste everything trying to find the others, too? If she’s gone, then who’s to say they didn’t get nicked, too?” 

 

Aziraphale mulls that over for a half second, but he’s already too comfortable with his own assumptions, so says, “An admirable concern, but see I don’t think that’s quite the case, my dear.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Well, I suppose there is something of a hierarchy, Crowley. Famine and Pollution, they err towards the less significant side of things. War and Death, are a bit more evenly footed in terms of their of reality rending implications.”

 

Crowley snorts, “What, so like, you think our lot snatched up War to start some big -” he waves his hands about, “ _thing_ , or whatever, but the other Horsemen are here?”

 

“And even if I am wrong, there’s no reason the two children wouldn’t be here. So we still have hope of finding them.”

 

“Proof’s in the Pepper,” Crowley says bitterly, casting the girl a sorrowful glance. 

 

He can’t hold it for more than a blink, and turns back to his friend, shuddering.

 

“Yeah I guess, I mean…” he gathers himself up off the floor, dragging his wings but careful not to muck anymore feathers through Pepper’s game.

 

With calm resignation, he takes Aziraphale’s hands and looks his friend imploringly in the eye. 

 

“You realize how fucking convoluted this is, yeah?”

 

Aziraphale, heart forever in his throat at the closeness of his friend, manages a weak laugh and says, “I’d consider it a disservice to the general _batshittery_ of the day if it were anything less, my dear.”

 

“You’ve got me there, Angel. But uh… any idea where we start looking? For the kids, I mean. Horsemen. Tell the truth? I couldn’t give a shit about them, they can go ahead and disintegrate, too. Just bloody sick of these poor kids getting dragged into it.”

 

“Oh, my dear, that’s very -”

 

“Do _not_ -”

 

Aziraphale smiles warmly but leaves the niceties unsaid, sparing his demon at least that bit much of his dignity. 

 

“Although…” he hums, the wheels turning in his head. “That does give me an idea.”

 

“What, of how to insult me?”

 

“No no - you, _ugh_ , ridiculous fiend, _no_. Of where the others might be.”

 

Crowley perks up at that.

 

“If Pepper is here…” Aziraphale explains. 

 

“And since the last we saw of War, was _in_ the bookshop, too,” Crowley adds, catching on.

 

“Then it stands to reason the others should be with, well,” Aziraphale waves his hand and chuckles, “with the _others_.”

 

“One problem with that, Angel,” Crowley throws his arms wide in the universal gesture of we’re-still-royally-fucked. “We dunno where Famine and Pollution even _were_.

 

“ _Maybe_ , shoulda asked Death that,” he adds sourly.

 

“Now now,” Azirpahale tuts, and squeezes Crowley’s hands before they can fall lax from his grip. “Don’t let’s go flaying ourselves over that. We had no idea what to expect.”

 

“Still,” Crowley gives a sheepish chuckle. “We really did just… stare Death in the face like - oop! And that’s all well and good off we pop to bloody purgatory!”

 

“Mm, rather did shoot ourselves in the foot there.”

 

“Yah…”

 

“But!” Aziraphale clings to his hope like a drowning man does a life preserver. “But look at us, figuring it all out together. I’d say we’re managing just fine given the - er - circumstances.”

 

Crowley wrinkles his nose. 

 

“Ugh, angelic optimism does _not_ look good on my eyes.”

 

“Nor does your moping suit my lovely wings, but here we are, _dear_.”

 

Crowley sucks the back of his teeth with an accompanying sneer and says, “Any idea where to even start looking, then? Oh wise Angel who knows _everything_ , apparently?”

 

“I believe,” Aziraphale ignores the dig, “that I heard tell of a particularly nasty oil spill off the Gulf of Mexico last week. Safe to assume our dirty little friend might have taken sabbatical from their usual… unpleasantries? It’s quite upsetting, really, all those poor pelicans and dolphins.”

 

“ _Please_ never say that again, Angel, for _fuck’s_ sake,” Crowley half gags.

 

“The dolphins?”

 

“No, you git, the - _ggeugh_ nevermind, Hell be _low_ you’re impossible.”

 

Aziraphale, with literal and metaphorical feathers ruffling, retorts, “At least I pay _atten_ tion to the world, _demon_. Otherwise we would be stuck here with no leads at all!”

 

“Yeah yeah, you’re a bloody lifesaver, _yeesh_ , I think these wings are preening on their own.”

 

Indeed, the angel’s plumage amidst his dark own has taken on a proud, glimorous sheen, and Crowley must resist the urge to glower them into submission. Desperately, he misses his plants… could do for a cathartic row right about now. 

 

“This logic is still razor thin, Angel,” he says, to make himself feel better. “You get that, right? There’s no guarante. To _any_ of this.”

 

“And neither can we expect a solution to just _fall_ into our laps, Crowley. At least with this, we have a chance.”

 

Aziraphale watches several expressions of deliberation pass over his friend’s face before it settles on something akin to maudlin discomfort. Bereft of his vitriol, the demon slouches.

 

“Pop over to the States, then?” He says much in the same way one might suggest a holiday in Crete. “Go muck about the… muck?”

 

“As it were,” says Aziraphale. 

 

“Alright, fine. When you’re right, you’re right.”

 

“Your confidence is overwhelming, my dear.”

 

Crowley flicks out his tongue - still blessedly forked, at least Aziraphale didn’t get that - and jerks his index and middle finger at his friend. The eyes between those knuckles glare at him, and he glares right back. 

 

“Really hope this gets sorted,” he says, indicating his cornea encrusted hand. “And where do we even _start_ with our lot? Don’t like the thought of them scheming away, you know?”

 

“Oh I’m perfectly dreading whatever it is,” Aziraphale agrees, going befittingly green around the gills, well, scales more precisely. “But, we really must focus on this. We have to find the children and the other Horsemen. I have a hunch that there will be a lot more clarity once we’ve sorted that mess.”

 

“Angel, I really, _truly_ appreciate the optimism, but if you could maybe dial it down? Please? You’re gonna turn my scales puce at this rate.”

 

Indeed, the scattering of them beneath the angel’s jaw have turned a sicklier shade of their already malevolent black, and Aziraphale rubs at them.

 

“Apologies, my dear. You’ll forgive me having never played host to demonic skin.”

 

“Same if I start molting,” says Crowley, and the angel eyes on his cheeks roll to the heavens.

 

The conversation stagnates there, the both of them using the pretense of their scrambled biology to avoid eye contact while racking their brains for some way to bridge the gap from “mostly bantering like an old married couple” to “performing the mortifying ordeal of hunting down two Horsemen of the Apocalypse and their accompanying child tithes all whilst trying _not_ to imagine what painfully under-creative tortures Heaven and Hell are planning with War in their combined grasps, if that’s what’s even going on at all”.

 

The Place of Forms, all too eager to provide them exactly zero reprieve of any kind - or so it seems - decides to give them a little nudge, permitting once more that elusive, grey-fog miasma into the bookshop. 

 

Figures writhe from it. And disappear back into it.

 

“ _King me_ ,” says Pepper, half-forgotten in the frenzy of their deliberations. 

 

The angel and demon exhale in unison, expressions worn to the bone of exhaustion.

 

“Do you have _any_ idea what that could be?” Aziraphale asks. 

 

There is so, _damn_ much at play and stake here. He’s starved for a single answer.

 

“Whatever it is,” mutters Crowley through tight teeth, “it’s got War written all over it. Wouldn’t put it past her to be conjuring some ghost army of all the suckers stuck in this place - oh fuck we gotta deal with them, too, _bloody_ fucking hell…”

 

Aziraphale’s hand comes to rest again on his shoulder, and Crowley swears he feels a miracle wisp down along his aching spine.

 

“One thing at a time, my dear,” says the angel.

 

“Wish th’damn universe’d do the same,” replies the demon.

 

“Well, there’s no point in standing around moping about it,” Aziraphale says definitively. “We might as well -”

 

“Get a wiggle on?” Crowley asks, and Aziraphale grins.

 

“If you prefer.”

 

“Oh you know I don’t.”

 

“Excellent, shall we? Only I’m curious to see how these fly,” Aziraphale flexes his wings, filling the hush of the shop with a whisper of comet’s tail wind. 

 

Despite their sinister implications, he’d be a fool not to admire demon feathers for their infallibly mysterious beauty, and Crowley’s boast a particular element of ethereality.

 

“Hold on there, big shot, forgotten something?”

 

“Hm?”

 

Crowley gestures sweepingly at Pepper, the girl still crying quietly away, playing with her gut-stuff.

 

“Oh,” Aziraphale deflates, hopeless dread settling again into his chest. “I suppose it wouldn’t be right to just… leave her, would it?”

 

Crowley, his expression grave and tired and sad, says, “No… but, well, I mean…”

 

“Nor would I prefer to find Pollution on my own.”

 

“Oi, who says you’re going?”

 

“Crowley, dear, I appreciate your concern, but you can well bugger off if you think I’m about to sit around this shop anymore.”

 

“Y’seem fine doing that on the regular?”

 

“Perhaps when the world wasn’t crumbling apart and my shop didn’t presently reside in a place comprised entirely of _philosophy_.”

 

“...Point taken.”

 

“What I _mean_ to suggest,” huffs the angel, “is at the very least we should ensure she’s… comfortable.”

 

“Comfortable…”

 

“Yes.” 

 

Crowley offers another defeated flail of his hands and says, “Dunno about you, but I don’t think we should go throwing around miracles left and right. But -”

 

“But…”

 

“Fuck, I dunno, Angel, maybe an eternally warm blanket and a cuppa?”

 

“I can manage the tea.”

 

Crowley laughs. That they’re rounding off this entire debate over _this_ of all things…

 

“Sure, fine, I’ll get the blanket.”

 

Aziraphale beams.

 

“Thank you, my dear.”

 

“Yeah yeah, shaddup.”

 

Nervous to yet attempt any miracles, they fidget with the moment, finding every excuse to forestall reaching into their cores and coaxing out that gleed of unreality and whimsy that permits them so easily on earth to bend any and every thing to their desire. 

 

“Think I’ll -” says Crowley, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.

 

“Yes and I would prefer -” Aziraphale replies, and shuffles his way over to the nearest shelf where he busily pretending to examine its contents.

 

Crowley takes his absence next to Pepper, this time crouching down beside her and half awkwardly placing a hand on her back, rubbing soothing motions to try and assuage her worst whimpers. He can’t look at her fully, nor at the task that’s been set for her, so he closes his eyes and thinks, till it’s almost a prayer: _It’s okay, we’re not going to let anything happen to you. You’re safe, you’re alright, we’re going to get you out of here. It’s okay, Pepper, and so’s Adam and everyone else and -_

 

Beneath his fingers, a plush, downy texture forms suddenly and unprompted, and he opens eyes to see a rather fantastically fluffy quilt now cocooning the girl. Miraculously, it just avoids draping into the gut-stuff, and although an extra twinge of exhaustion settles into the pit of Crowley’s stomach, he smiles, relieved and grateful.

 

Aziraphale, meanwhile, has taken to calming himself with a mantra of the books he thinks he recognizes on the shelves. Their bindings oscillate between the various vellums and leathers that have bound their editions over the centuries, but he knows those by heart, so it’s easy enough to distinguish Bede from Malory. With each tome he recalls, a wash of calm overcomes him, assures him this place can’t all be bad, not if his books can still exist. 

 

And then he happens upon a binding he doesn’t recognize: its leather gristle black and sandpaper rough even just upon the eye. Beholding it immediately sets a gloom of foreboding clouds into his mind's eye, and his fingers itch to pull it down and read it and discover what, pray tell, it is doing so sinisterly amongst his precious stock. As he reaches for it, however, a jolt arcs through his body, and a perfect, steaming cup of black tea appears in his hand, a bitter-rich aroma of honeyed bergamot wafting up in great swaths of curling steam. 

 

“Oh,” he breathes, the daze in his senses clearing. 

 

“Oh,” he says again, and then, “Well. Um. Crowley?”

 

He turns round to find his friend sat with a blanket adorned Pepper, one of his wings stretched out around her for an extra layer of protection.

 

“I’m…” the angel looks down at the cup of tea, puzzling over its decidedly non child-friendly manifestation. “I’m not sure how she takes it, actually.”

 

“Doubt she’ll even drink it, Angel,” Crowley says, not looking up. “S’the thought that counts.”

 

Aziraphale “hm’s” to himself, still confused, but makes his way over anyway and sets the cup down beside Pepper. 

 

“That it, then?” asks Crowley.

 

“I suppose it is,” Aziraphale answers, and offers a hand to his friend.

 

Carefully, Crowley takes it, but before Aziraphale can help him up, he presses close again to Pepper and briskly kisses the top of her head. 

 

“That was -” begins Aziraphale

 

“You know how badly I wanted one of those after I fell?” Crowley interrupts, before Aziraphale can pin that sickly sweet word on him.

 

“Just leave it, Angel.”

 

“Alright, dear.”

 

“Hang in there, kid,” Crowley mutters to Pepper, and pointedly ignores the knowing smile on his friend’s face as clambers to his feet.

 

“I suppose it was inevitable, you know,” the angel says.

 

“What,” Crowley eyes him over, “playing babysitter in purgatory?”

 

“Well, we did appoint ourselves Adam’s godfather once upon an Armageddon.”

 

“Oh you think you’re well clever for that, don’t you.”

 

“In fact, I do, thank you.”

 

Crowley cuffs Aziraphale’s shoulder with his own, rolling his eyes.

 

“To the Gulf, then?”

 

“Hopefully it’s just as simple,” Aziraphale sighs. “I would so _hate_ for this to be anymore complicated.”

 

“Aw what, not enjoying bloody checkers and ghosts?” Crowley grimaces as a distinct _slch_ noise rises up from the floor, Pepper no doubt sliding some bit of meat into a formation only she can conceive of.

 

“If I must decipher one more metaphor, my dear.”

 

“Ah-ah,” Crowley points down, “you mean _meat_ aphor.”

 

No one laughs at this, not even the universe.

 

“Was that really appropriate?”

 

“Made me feel better.”

 

Before Aziraphale can respond, the bookshop yields once more to the intangible fog, its sickly mist enveloping them in its tendril wisps and indecipherable agonies. This time, however, the figures within to not bulge in perverse profusion from its mass. Instead they stand there in the mist, as if watching, as if waiting. 

 

And they wait, too, angel and demon, for Pepper to pipe up and win against whatever game she’s playing with these spectres, but for a terrible stretch of silence, she remains as such: wordless and shivering beneath the thick embrace of the quilt. 

 

“You’ve got this, Pepper,” Crowley growls. “Kick their fucking asses.”

 

He doesn’t dare break his gaze from the fog, but, fucking _hell_ , it’s not fair to pin this all on a little girl, and his rage threatens to scorch him all the way to the tips of his perfect, angelic primaries.

 

“Do it,” Aziraphale says beside him, a bit shaken, perhaps, but emboldened nonetheless.

 

The fog offers no retort, just the vague suggestion of its _watching_. But something heaves in the thick of it, a great expelling of air, and, with an underwhelming sigh, it dissolves again.

 

“ _King me_ ,” says Pepper wearily. 

 

“If we get out of this alive,” breathes Crowley giving his angel a wild, grateful look. “We’re getting her the bloody crown jewels.”

 

“I couldn’t agree more, my dear,” Aziraphale dares to laugh. 

 

Around them, the bookshop holds steady, for ten, twenty, three hundred and seventeen seconds. Aziraphale counts them, as does Crowley, but neither of them makes the other aware, neither wants the other to know how they’re biding time. A perverse hope forms unwanted yet morbidly sought all the same: that perhaps the fog will return and prevent their leaving the bookshop for good. 

 

It doesn’t. They have no choice.

 

“Shall we?” Says Aziraphale when finally the silence and waiting grows simply too oppressive.

 

Crowley groans and rubs at his eyes, distinctly missing his glasses, the comfort of their weight on his nose and the meager obscurity they offer his eyes. Presently, they’re holding back a monsoon of tired tears, so he doesn’t look directly at his friend as he replies, “Yeah, might as well.”

 

“After you?” Aziraphale tries to joke, motioning in the direction of the door.

 

“Bastard,” Crowley mumbles, but to avoid any necessary “ _really_?” expressions, braves the distance to the door, angel in tow.

 

“We’ll be back,” Aziraphale calls to the girl in their wake. “And - and we’ll have all of your friends, too. We promise.”

 

Pepper does not acknowledge him, just traces round and round her finger in the gut-stuff. Their feathers on the bone have not moved, nor does she give any indication of using them as playing pieces but, as they have well discovered by now, things are terribly less literal in the Place of Forms. Everything. He dreads to think what the feathers could possibly present to their wider narrative, so chooses not to think on it at all, anymore. He’ll need his sanity for the task ahead.

 

“Ready?” Asks Crowley.

 

His eye adorned hand rests on the doorknob, and Aziraphale gazes sadly back at his angel irises. 

 

“Yes,” he says, lying through his teeth, and regrets, suddenly, not having been given Crowley’s fangs. 

 

Untruths are far easier to cage behind a demon’s grin.

 

Well aware of his friend’s turmoils, Crowley stalls a brief second, pulse in his throat, but what help is it. What is he doing save prolonging the anxiety? 

 

He opens the door.

 

And, for a second, for a blink of time uncounted by either angel or demon or any other entity, sentient and not… and for all of those counted, too, and for this new second, entirely unknown and open-wound-bleeding here in the Place of Forms… for this and those and that and all the muddled up in-between… they see a battle, a Great battle. Raging and spitting and _final_.

 

And the blink-second expires, and they do not see the battle anymore, not to a necessary completion. And so, they do not see its end, but they do see beyond it, into the Place of Forms, the place beyond the haven of their bookshop and the bravery of a single, little girl.

 

“Shit,” whispers Crowley.

 

“Oh dear…” agrees Aziraphale.

 

“ _King me_ ,” says Pepper, and quietly moves their feathers into play.


	10. the long dark tea-time of the̷͗ͬ̍͐̑̇ͬ͂͗ͨ͌͑̏͘ ̸̶̶̢ͪͮ͋̈ͦ́ͨ̚ ̧͂̅ͨ̑҉ ̵̶̧̿͐ͧͯ̉̋̓ͫ̇̒́̓̕ ̵̨ͩͪͭ̉̄́ͧ͊͗͗̔̾ͨ̒̚͘ ́̔ͫ̊͊̀͏̢ ͥ̓̈́̄̈́̈̚͘͟͠ ̡̨͋̃̔͗̆̒ͭ͗̉̿̌̐ͩ̒̆ͧ͌̚͜͠ ̵ͦ̿̃ͨͣ̊͑͐͟

They read for hours, Death and Adam Young. Well, Adam Young _to_ Death, an unspoken agreement having been made that the spectre’s taste in literature is far too bitter for Adam’s palate. As such, the boy gathers a stack of books teetering up to Death’s jagged shoulders and offers each one like an amuse-bouche. The spectre samples them: by cover, by plot, by subtext, by the ratio of contained adverbs, by the socio-political climates at the time of publication. Most of these factor in next to nothing, Adam’s appetite angling toward the more childish and obscure. So much so, in fact, that Death considers piping up halfway through a strange title called _Interstellar Pig_ to ask if they might have a go at something that doesn’t involve otherworldly porcines. But each time It thinks there might be a lull in the narrative, suddenly x has happened to y while z does abcde… and on and on through the whole infinite alphabet until it blends into one, great hum. 

 

It’s not that Death is bored, but Adam’s enthusiasms are a bit too human for It to parse, and the joy borne of his stumbling upon long-ago lost books is not something Death can contend with. It can appreciate the sentiment, of course, but It is, first and foremost, an entity of loss and obscurity, of things forgotten. It views Adam’s ebullience like a specimen under magnifying lights and mirrors, dissecting and plucking, but only ever doing that: tearing it up into smaller bits. The whole gets lost, and Death must hold Itself together for Adam’s sake. For every time he looks up from the page and grins, toothy and faultless, or gasps and announces “Oh this’s my _favorite_ part!” about _several_ parts in succession. For when he completes another story and sighs, so very satisfied, and Death wishes, _prays_ almost, that It could feel that, too, and offer it back to Adam, keep the boy suspended there in the bliss of his books. 

 

But the boy - ravenous, insatiable Adam - devours them too quickly for the spectre to insinuate Itself. As It once collected souls, so, too, does Adam collect words on his tongue, offering them up like alms, swallowing them like communion, smiling when he thinks he sees one tucked away in the hood of Death’s robe - a smile, that is. But _that_ is merely a consequence of Death’s reality, the facade of happiness stretched out along Its fleshless face. It spent Its smiles hours ago.

 

Truth be told, It is tired. Still tired. Still flagging from where Adam found It in the forest. From the harrowing sight of Its friend’s remains scorched invisibly into the floor of the shop, seen only by Itself. From the _everything else_ still looming in the incalculable future. 

 

Eventually, finally, Adam grows tired, too - his is human and far more easily rectified - and, at merciful length, he sets down his third book and blinks slowly at Death.

 

“Think m’gonna take a break,” he says, dog-earring his page, oblivious to the abuse it inflicts upon the edition. 

 

For that, Death laughs, genuinely, and Adam gives It a queer look.

 

“What’s so funny?”

 

_JUST YOU_ , answers the spectre plainly. 

 

Dog growls protectively in the half lucidity of his sleep but otherwise does not move from the aged sofa, even as Adam “ _hup’s_ ” to his feet.

 

“Kinda hungry, too,” the boy says. “But I’unno where Mister ‘Ziraphale put my stuff.”

 

Death takes a quick, sweeping stock of their surroundings, searching out the bread and lunch meats Adam had on his person when they met. It was one of the first things the spectre detected, actually - the sheer _humanness_ of ensuring the possibility of good meal despite impending doom practically radiated off of him. 

 

As it is, Death detects neither rye nor ham, just books and ledgers and the vague ozone-snap of the upstairs collapsed into itself following the angel and demon’s departure. Curiously, a slight pocket of reality remains, the darkness of anti-matter ballooned out just a tad to sustain the existence of what appears to be a water damaged page, one that belongs to none of the books here. 

 

_HM_ … hums Death, aloud without realizing.

 

“Hm?” Echoes Adam, unbinding the spectre from Its spell of curiosity. “What’s up?”

 

_NOTHING_ . Surreptitiously willing the page from its hibernation amidst the nothing, Death secrets it into one of Its own incomprehensible pockets. _JUST IT SEEMS YOUR FOOD MATERIALS HAVE BEEN MADE UNDONE._

 

“An’ you say _I’m_ funny,” Adam sniffs. “Talk like you’ve never had a sandwich before.”

 

_IN FACT, I HAVE NOT_.

 

Adam practically gawks. “What! That’s stupid! How old’re you, anyway?”

 

_IS THAT TRULY RELEVANT_?

 

“Yeah, cuz Brian can’t even go a day without a sausage roll.”

 

_AND WHAT BEARING DOES THAT HAVE ON MY HAVING NOT CONSUMED MEAT AND BREAD_?

 

Adam sighs and rolls his eyes. 

 

“I’m j’st sayin’. They’re good. An’ I’d really like one, an’ I want you to try one, too.”

 

_Huh_ , thinks Death, stymied at the prospect of ingesting corporeal food.

 

_AN INTRIGUING PROPOSITION, PRINCE,_ It says. 

 

_ALTHOUGH I REGRET TO INFORM YOU,_ It continues, ever keen on loopholes of every sort and knot. _FOODSTUFFS WERE NOT SPARED THE WRATH OF THIS UPHEAVAL. YOU WILL NO SOONER FIND AN APPLE THAN AN AARDVARK. OR, I SUPPOSE AN EDIBLE ONE. AN APPLE, THAT IS. ER…_

 

The scaffolding of Its clever retort buckles under the weight of Adam’s amused grin and, had Death any flesh about Itself, it would certainly be stuck to Its cheeks for how the bones there burn with the ghost of embarrassment. Never has the spectre felt quite so fumbling, but the boy’s refusal to cower even in the slightest renders Its best intimidations a veritable stand up routine. 

 

“I mean, maybe you’re right,” Adam says, his tone pitying as if trying to amend Death’s reputation. “But, y’know I was thinkin’ that if th’rain works around me, then maybe other stuff will, too?”

 

_ADAM._

 

“Like, how weird would that be!” The boy continues, but a storm rolls and boils, hidden behind his eyes, poised for a deluge he does not yet see. “Makin’ sandwiches alive! Are they even alive? Seems stupid that - that they’d go to that, you know… because…

 

_ADAM_ -

 

“Oh…”

 

But It cannot finish. This, Adam must conclude for himself. He must understand the gravity.

 

“Death?”

 

And there, the dawning again of his sorrow, his reality. It is the first he has spoken of the spectre’s name, and he wrings it out like a lie, disbelieving that there might not be truth in this.

 

“How come…” he pulls a breath like a shot of blood, tries again through the mist of his grimace. 

 

“How come th’rain works but mum din’t? 

 

_YOU SHOULD NOT ASK ME THESE THINGS,_ the spectre says. _YOU WILL NOT FIND COMFORT IN MY ANSWER._

 

“What is it?” Adam persists, meekly.

 

_I DO NOT KNOW_ , Death says. Truthfully. Knelling with it. _I CAN ONLY CONJECTURE_.

 

“Then… _conjecture_ ,” Adam balls his hands into uncertain fists, fighting back the red creeping into his cheeks, the shadows beneath his eyes.

 

The sight of it, the bitter defense of his fury, wells up in Death a nauseating, foreign urge, an unfathomable need to hug the boy and seep warmth into his frail heart. It is - it _is_ … 

 

_untenable_

 

It chooses, instead - and with no small effort - to stand Its ground and say, sparingly, carefully, _YOU ARE LIFE FOR ALL, ADAM, BUT A RAINDROP IS FAR EASIER TO SALVAGE THAN A SOUL -_

 

“Couldn’t I try?” Adam interrupts. “Maybe - maybe I just din’t stay with her long enough! You know? Like when I’m sick, she always lets me sleep with her an’ dad even though that makes dad sick, too, and -”

 

Abcde into infinity, but these words taint the boy’s mouth: a sour frown, a squinched up pinch of the eyes and nose, until the tears leak through and Adam lets the defeat consume him. 

 

“Couldn’t I?” He pleads, sinking back onto the sofa. 

 

Dog, awake now, whimpers into his lap. Adam does not pet him.

 

_Can I bear the disappointment? What will this do? What can I do?_

 

_I THINK_ , says Death after a terrible stretch of silence, of being watched so helplessly by the last boy on earth…

 

_I THINK WE SHOULD HAVE A SANDWICH._

 

“...What?”

 

Adam stares at the spectre, eyes shining with sad. 

 

_I - YOU…_ Death wracks Its skull for a modicum of sense, similarly dumbfounded by the words It has just uttered.

 

_HUNGRY_ . It tries. _YOU SAID YOU WERE… HUNGRY, YES? AND - AND YOU HUMANS, WHEN YOU ARE HUNGRY… ER… DO NOT MAKE THE BEST DECISIONS… ABOUT THINGS… BECAUSE OF THE HUNGER…_

 

Wherever Famine is, he is undoubtedly doubled over in hysterics.

 

“What?” Repeats Adam, shakily, but of sorrow or laughter, Death cannot discern a difference.

 

_I - I AM SORRY, ADAM I…_

 

“Hey,” Adam slides off the sofa and, somehow, manages to find Death’s hand from the infinite folds of Its robes. Finds it and takes it and holds it.

 

“S’okay.”

 

Death stares down at this impossible gesture and the impossible boy performing it.

 

“We can have a sandwich.”

 

_BUT… YOUR MOTHER_? The spectre says, stupidly - _guilty_ \- regretting Its efforts to dissuade the boy and, in so doing, digging Itself this shallow, pitiful grave. 

 

Adam sniffles, bravely holding back his tears, but tells still shine through, glass splattered on pavement in the scorch of a setting sun.

 

“F’m honest,” he says, as though he could be anything _but_ , “I’d really like t’go home n’see her. Can we do that? Please?”

 

_Why do you ask me? I have no answers, Prince. You are stealing them from me, word by word._

 

_IF THAT IS WHAT YOU WANT._

 

Adam’s shoulders sag with relief, and he hiccups through a smile.

 

“Okay,” he says, and, finally, lets go of Death’s hand.

 

“M’gonna get my coat,” he continues, and begins padding away in his sock feet. 

 

He doesn’t make it very far, discovering very quickly the precocious spiral stairwell up which the angel had bustled him is no longer there. Sheepishly, he pads back to Death’s side.

 

“Er…” a new smattering of red fills up his cheeks, the embarrassment coloring in his sallow youth. “Forgot I left it up there.”

 

_OH DEAR_ , says Death, and, in Its concern, neglects to puzzle over the humble, _human_ colloquialism It has just used.

 

“Maybe Mister ‘Ziraphale’s got something extra lying around?”

 

_I WOULD NOT COUNT ON IT,_ Death makes another observation of the shop entire, then “upstairs” again for good measure, in case it missed another pocket dimension containing the boy’s coat.

 

Nothing.

 

“Dang-it,” Adam huffs when Death relays as much. “You sure?”

 

Death nods.

 

_VERY RATHER UNFORTUNATELY._

 

“I… really wanna go out, though,” the boy sighs, kicking at the floor with his feet still in socks. “I mean… you can take us there, right? Back home, I mean. Do the -” he clasps his hands together in front of his face. “Thingy, right? The teleport thing.”

 

_I… SUPPOSE_?

 

The spectre mulls on this, still unsure of the ramifications of bringing Adam back into the world, and to his mother, no less. Some things are stronger than the fates Death prides Its familiarity on, and the technicalities of familial bonds have always been ever so elusive. 

 

Similarly vexing is this nagging to indulge Adam, to coax out just one more laugh. Incomprehensible though it may be, Death is _fascinated_ . See, It is not incapable of happiness. Although happiness is, by nature, a gruesome antithesis to the spectre’s entire purpose, the two are merely incompatible. Like two similar poles of two different magnets turned to face one another, forever warring against each other’s push until, say, one particularly determined child grips _extra_ hard and mashes the two North’s together. Or South’s, depending. (Technically, Death is a West. It prefers the symbolism implied.)

 

And so, magnets or not, Adam has latched on, and the spectre cannot find a way to pry him off. So it does something truly absurd, and says, _HERE_.

 

And into Its infinite cloak, Death affixes Its own grip. And pulls and pulls and pulls. And procures a hefty ream of the abstruse fabric, the between-of-the-stars black of it shifting out of corporeality at all angles save one. 

 

See, divorced from its encloaked host, the comprisal of Death’s robe does not understand how to exist. Both were made at the hairline fracture of the beginning before beginning, and so - thermodynamics - are indistinguishable. But Death, emboldened by Adam’s defiance to perform Its own daring sort of sedition, wills the cloak into a quarrelsome cooperation, cajoling its stitches into submission, insisting and debating until it deigns to drape itself back into visible actuality.  

 

It absolutely does _not_ enjoy this, and protests quite vividly as Death sets about wrapping Adam in it.

 

Thrashes of midnight, whimpers of irresplendent onyx. The cloak of Death around Adam, Former Prince of Hell, and Life incarnate. 

 

He wears it, well, perfectly.

 

“Is’so… soft,” remarks the boy, shuffled up closer to the spectre to accommodate the awkward tension between them.

 

Despite the fabric’s infinitudes, it refuses to relinquish any more of itself than it absolutely has to. As such, Adam looks like a second Omen Of The End stuck to Death’s side. 

 

_HUH_ , says the spectre.

 

Having never taken stock of Its cloak in such trivial terms, Death feels suddenly the gossamer threads between Its fingers, over Its bones and eyeless sockets. Like ink upon vellum, the caress of it. 

 

_HUH…_

 

Dog, for his part, maintains a safe distance from both the spectre and his master. Adam, completely enamored of this strange and impossible gesture, furiously nuzzles his face into a handful of the fabric.

 

“S’so soft!” He pulls away, glimmer eyed, hair a mess.

 

“Like clouds.”

 

_IMPOSSIBLE,_ Death corrects, utterly perplexed by this display. _THEY ARE INTANGIBLE, ADAM._

 

“No, like,” the boy talks as he better tucks the robe around himself, “like how you always _thought_ they’d feel. And how I think they’d taste like candy floss?”

 

_PLEASE DO NOT EAT MY ROBE_.

 

Adam snorts.

 

“F’course not! M’just sayin’.”

 

Again, the boy assumes so much of Death: that It has indulged such daydreams before, that It knows the taste of candy floss. How does he forget so easily? How does he compartmentalize like this? The world is ending on every uncertain term, and, still, Adam Young remains a boy. 

 

“So it’s waterproof?”

 

Death emerges from its ruminations with no answers to show, only endless queries over this puzzlesome boy.

 

_IT IS EVERYTHING, ADAM_ , It says, hoping to regain Its own enigmatic footing.

 

“Oh, so it _is_ candy floss?” Adam cracks the slyest grin Death has yet seen - Famine’s included.

 

_WHAT? NO, THAT IS NOT -_

 

“You _said_ everything,” says Adam.

 

_YOU WILL NOT GET WET,_ sighs the spectre.

 

Truth not-be-told, It doesn’t know what will happen. It’s worried alright, fretting that perhaps the essence of Life wrapped up in Its cloak will veer reality into the wrong lane of the cosmic freeway and send them hurtling into a thirteen dimensional ditch. But Adam’s mind is set, and Death’s resolve has been compromised from the moment It stood patiently by to listen to this human boy orate terribly and genuinely every story he has cherished in his short time upon earth. 

 

No.

 

Actually.

 

Earlier than that. 

 

In the forest, where It limped to find a throne and, with nothing but a vague grasp at faith, at hope, called out to Its adversary, called out to Life for salvation. And here It is beside the spectre, waxing poetic about candy floss, and hoping to see Its mother, and hankering for a sandwich of all things, and sustaining the world, entire, and all the listless lives gone dormant in the clutch of this great Wait.

 

And It has donned Its wellies again, and is wrapping the fibers of the stuff between the between of stars tighter around Its head. 

 

“Think we better try an’ just walk around, first,” says Adam Young. “Just t’see.”

 

_I THINK WE HAD BETTER, YES_ , says Death.

 

“Dog? D’you wanna come or -?”

 

The animal, still distrustful of his master’s smell - this stratospheric sneeze upon his amber scent - whimpers, cowering at the prospect of staying here alone in the shop, or biting back his best instincts - that is, to _bite_ \- and accepting the strangeness of Adam. 

 

_I… PROMISE NOT TO FORGET HIM THIS TIME._

 

“Hear that, boy?” Adam kneels down and holds out his hand.

 

Cautiously, Dog approaches, eyebrows dancing with deliberation.

 

“S’alright. We’ll go home inna bit an’ see mum.”

 

Death, standing idly by, flinches at the boy’s ever so promising tone. He’s already convinced himself, believes this will work, that he, alone, might bring the world back from the brink. 

 

Dog, far more easily swayed, relents his suspicions and shoves his nose into Adam’s palm, licking furiously like he might just clean away the stench of Death.

 

_ARE WE READY, THEN?_ The spectre asks.

 

“I’ll go first,” the boy offers, bravely. “F’I can just - hang on - er…”

 

He gathers up a draping swath of the cloak oil-spill pooling his feet and shuffles around Death.

 

“Kay, there. Can you -?”

 

He reaches out, nudges at the spectre, prompting It to turn, as well, and ease the tangled fabric between them.

 

“There. Yeah. Sorry, d’you wanna? Just follow me?”

 

Death can’t help Its laugh. Every awful possibility looms at the prospect of their leaving the safety of the shop - and It could just as well whisk them back to Tadfield and avoid this whole mess - but Adam’s whimsy simply cannot be defeated.

 

_IF THAT IS WHAT YOU PREFER._

 

Adam shrugs, a half smile pulling wanly up to his eyes.

 

“C’mon then,” he says, and heads for the door.

 

Death wavers, letting Its cloak unspool, but before It can consider anymore of their woefully limited options, Adam turns around.

 

_APOLOGIES_ , Death says, and glides after the boy.

 

“D’you not wanna go?”

 

_I WAS ONLY THINKING, ADAM, NOTHING MORE._

 

“What about?”

 

_NOTHING IMPORTANT_ , Death says, unsure of what could possibly matter anymore, what presents the most consequence and what denies them, entirely.

 

And then Adam opens the door to the shop, and Death sees both: the consequence and the denial.

 

A blink-second. A battle. Mistful, wrathsome figurines of war, but nowhere is Its friend among them.

 

Death sees this, but does not see its end. The mirage ceases before that can arrive.

 

The spectre stumbles.

 

The boy surges forward.

 

Life leading Death.

 

And -

 

“Whoa! Lookit this!”

 

_Did you see it? Did you see? What do you see? Please tell me, Adam. I fear for myself._

 

Adam, ever a boy, has not seen. There is only the undoing world for him, the grey and mirror green of the stopped rain made _doing_ again as he marches out into the deluge of his own inspiration. 

 

And, they do not careen into obscurity, and the world does not tip off its axis. In fact, the inanity of Life in Death’s clothing does nothing. 

 

“Look!”

 

Well, almost nothing.

 

Death does. As Adam holds up his arm encased in black, and sees the result. Watches as the rain brought back to _doing_ by the boy’s presence falls upon his person and, wherever it graces itself to the cloak, is immediately winked from existence. Not absorbed, not slicked off like a duck. Just gone.

 

_I…_

 

“ _Wicked_ …”

 

Said with awe. Not the fear suffusing Death’s bones, nor the memory-etch of those sinister visions there-and-then-not, but not gone in the way with which It is familiar. Not with how It sent off a demon and angel or went to retrieve a dog. These defied. Everything. Sense and sensation. On the binary of fever dream to corporeal menace, they blipped off to their own side of things, their own bastardized set of rules. 

 

Death can’t even begin to approach them.

 

“ _Hey_ , hey!”

 

There’s Adam again, always still Adam. He’s waving a hand through the rain. 

 

_Hallo_ , thinks Death, dazedly.

 

“You alright? R’you getting wet?” The boy asks. “M’okay, not getting wet.”

 

_GOOD_ , says Death, on an instinct It never knew It had. 

 

Because it is. It _is_ good.

 

“So you’re okay?”

 

_YES._

 

Is It? Okay? Good? One of these Adam asked, the other he never will and, of them both, Death can answer neither. There are too many factors. Too many battles.

 

“Good,” Adam smiles. 

 

Always awe-ful smiles.

 

And he turns away from the spectre, and he turns to the world beyond the bookshop, and he takes it all in. 

 

And he does not see the battle because, for him, there is only hope.

 

-

 

“V’never been to London before, you know,” Adam stands there, letting the rain disappear into the cloak of Death, and stares out at the un-bustling streets of Soho.

 

Building after building stretches beyond him, their silhouettes made static by the _stopped_ rain glitching in the air. There are people, wavering about on the pavement, but Adam is nervous to approach them, or anything, really. He finds surety in standing, watching. Gathering the universe by bits and bobs, reassembling its pieces in his quietly careening mind.

 

Beside him, Dog sits soaked at his feet, vigilant and interminably loyal. He’s so very glad the animal decided to come - not that Adam would have blamed him for staying behind. Despite his best attempts at optimism, foreboding anchors heavy in his chest, at the tips of his fingers even as he lifts them to touch at the rain. It doesn’t disappear into them, just the cloak. His face and hands and wellies are free to glisten and shine.

 

_OH?_ Replies Death, sounding so distant behind him when only a few cavernous feet of cloak stretch between them.

 

“Yeah, even for school. ‘Cept I don’t really mind cuz I don’t really like the city, anyway. Not enough trees.”

 

Beneath his feet, the pavement ripples with the _doing_ rain and with memories of roots that once ruptured them, back when Adam believed a mere show of force could right all the wrongs of the world.

 

And how rightfully wrong he was. 

 

“Bet you’ve been t’every city in the world, huh?”

 

Death seems to consider this question as though It may have forgotten, over the eons, how many metropolises it has seen scattered to burial sites.

 

_JUST ABOUT_ , It eventually answers.

 

“S’nice? Seeing th’world an’ everything?”

 

_I SUPPOSE._

 

“Don’t think I want t’see the whole world,” Adam continues, mystically and misty eyed. “Kinda takes the fun out of it, cuz then I know what everything’s like, an’ what’s the point of that? If you know everything, then there’s nothing left t’do, you know?”

 

Adam grins to himself, imagining how Pepper would roll her eyes over the wordplay. It’s been easier, too, thinking about his friends in the calm of the past few hours, though his hope still aches for his mother. 

 

_I ASSURE YOU,_ Death says, and Adam suspects a grin from the spectre, too. _YOU WILL NEVER KNOW EVERYTHING._

 

in fact, it is a grimace

 

“Well, that’s good.”

 

Death offers nothing more, and Adam returns his attention to the wide, waiting world, wintered down before him. There’s a woman nearby, across the street, swaying like mum did, and he takes a step toward her, and another, feels a slight tension at his back, but it gives as Death gives in, and follows him.

 

He carves a path through the rain as he goes, so much of it falling into nothing as it meets the fate of his cloak, blazing the strangest of trails. 

 

“Hallo?” 

 

He maintains a respectful distance from the woman, her umbrella dropped by her side, but she does not respond. Her face, a disarray of static-swiped flesh and fear, he cannot look directly at, so he looks at her hand and considers it.

 

Then he looks back at Death.

 

“Should I?”

 

Death shrugs. It’s a woeful caricature.

 

_THAT IS YOUR DECISION._

 

So Adam decides.

 

He does not reach out.

 

“M’gonna wait for mum” he says, oh so gently, and the roar-to-hush of the rain washes over it, drowns it out. 

 

If there’s only one chance of this working, he doesn’t want to waste it, not for a stranger. For all her features do not relay, she could easily be mum but... 

 

And, bsides, they’re going to save everyone. She’ll be alright.

 

Still, a pang of guilt tugs in his chest, and, careful not to touch her, Adam retrieves the woman’s umbrella from the ground and hooks it onto her arm. 

 

“There,” he says, unsatisfied, but at least it’s something.

 

_WOULD YOU LIKE TO FIND A SHOP, THEN?_

 

Death, waiting patiently behind him, extends a hand onto his shoulder.

 

It’s Adam’s turn to shrug.

 

_THERE IS A NICE PATISSERIE NEARBY._

 

“Sounds fancy.”

 

_YOU WOULD BE SURPRISED WHAT A PETITE FOUR CAN DO FOR THE APOCALYPSE, ADAM._

 

“You’re really bad at jokes,” Adam sniffles, apparently having mistaken his tears for rain, but the heat on his cheeks exposes his strung out sadness all over again. 

 

_SO I HAVE HEARD, THANK YOU._

 

“Welcome.”

 

The bones on his shoulder slide away, but he knows Death still waits.

 

“Okay,” he says. “Yeah.”

 

Turning round, he joins his friend and leaves the woman in the great consternation of her own un-doing self.

 

_I DO NOT SUSPECT_ , Death says as they walk, _WE WILL SPECIFICALLY FIND A SANDWICH._

 

“S’okay,” Adam gathers up the extra swaths of cloak fallen between them, proffering the folds back to Death. “We should eat somethin’ though.”

 

As of yet, the spectre has not corrected him on the matter of whether or not It can consume food, and Adam was having admittedly too much fun trying to test Its limits back in the shop. A sandwich was good to start with, but dainty cakes and pastries? He can almost forget the woman and the others, and their undoing world around him.

 

They meander the streets in companionable silence, Adam and Death. Well, silence in as much as can be permitted with the soft rush-roar of rain Adam brings with him. Beneath their feet, the pavement sits unsure of itself, but maintains enough sense to carry along wellies, paws, and whatever constitutes Death’s anatomy. Beside them, looming up around and sagging back down, the buildings of Soho sit dormant, recalled to a semblance of their architecture and occupants when Adam passes by, deflating again as he continues on by. 

 

The patisserie Death seeks out sits kitty corner to a decrepit Greggs, although little personality is inspired back into it as Adam approaches, anyway. There was scarce much to begin with.

 

The cafe, however, immediately blooms with pretty splashes of pastel, like ink tipped into water, the slate-face windows filling up with a meager glow of shining glass and the dear little pastries such establishments all but exist for. 

 

Presently, it exists for Adam and Death and Dog, and a softly discordant bell chimes out as Adam opens the door. He holds it, for Death and Dog, and follows after them. The rain outside comes to a pause as he departs its presence, and hovers there, dutifully waiting, hoping for his return.

 

Inside, the shop is mostly devoid of patrons save a few, sallow individuals languishing in ornate wire chair and table sets, with accompanying newspapers and cups of coffee long since gone to a standstill. Their chosen mille feuille and croissants sit in shifting slivers on plates whose china struggles valiantly to remain corporeal. As Adam steps into the cafe, proper, the cream and cutlery seem to sigh, relieved back into a wisp of tangibility. He sees, as well, there’s no one manning the till, which makes him feel marginally better about the prospect of stealing food.

 

Death, for all It is still a black and moldering spire, sticks out like a blood stain on crisp linens, Its ever implied menace seeping into the atmosphere. Adam sees only the comedy in it, the stark, sore-thumb contrast of his friend amidst the frou and frill. He swallows down a chuckle, to save the spectre Its dignity.

 

“This’s nice,” he says instead, because it is. 

 

Genuinely it is, and he thinks how much Wensleydale and Brian would love it, and how Pepper would roll her eyes if offered anything pink. And his heart doesn’t sink at the idea. And it is… so nice.

 

“How’d you know about this place?”

 

Death, maneuvering Itself away from the display case next to the till, peers at Adam. 

 

_I HAVE BEEN HERE A FEW TIMES, ACTUALLY,_ It says. _IT IS SIMPLE STATISTICS, REALLY, SOMEONE IS BOUND TO DIE SOMEWHERE, ALWAYS. I DO NOT THINK THERE IS A SINGLE ACRE ON THIS PLANET THAT I HAVE NOT YET VISITED._

 

“S’kinda grim,” Adam wrinkles his nose, and the cafe dims, going static again at the edges, around the door frame and moldings, amidst the strawberry swirls of cream atop a nearby bavarois.

 

_I ONLY MEAN THAT - THAT I DID NOT SEEK THIS PLACE OF MY VOLITION_ , Death explains hurriedly. _NOTHING MENACING, JUST IT WAS INEVITABLE._

 

“Oh.”

 

In fact, the spectre’s reasoning rather reminds Adam of the excuses Brian had to give his classmates for sporting a magenta rucksack last year when all of the Them very well knew it was just because he liked the color. 

 

“S’okay if you like pastries, you know,” Adam offers, and the cafe ceases wriggling in his periphery, settling down. 

 

Death cocks Its head. Adam does not need to see Its face to know the quizzical expression It wears.

 

_I - SURE? NOT EXACTLY MY POINT, BUT THANK YOU._

 

Adam smiles, hands on his hips. It’s the same satisfied look he gave Brian when he convinced him not to throw away the rucksack.

 

“Welcome.”

 

With that, he turns his attention to the display case of pastries and cakes, a mean tug of hunger filling up his empty stomach with growls and aches. When had he last eaten? Was it really crisps and cocoa in the fort? It feels as if ages have passed beyond that point, so much else sweeping him up into this whirlwind adventure. At least he’s starting to think of it more like that. The books help him unwind, clear his head, reassess things. Mister Aziraphale and Crowley seemed capable enough, and more than willing to cast themselves into the unknown to save his friends. There is faith in them, and there is faith in his odd friendship with Death. For all these intense purposes, things are… actually bearable. 

 

In the forest, with dark whispers in his head and fear heavy between his ribs, he could never have envisioned himself as he is now, taking tea in a patisserie in Soho with Death. It sounds like the set up for an elaborate joke, but he’s always been awful at catching the punchline, so is content to string this out to the fullest. 

 

“Not much left,” he says, gesturing to the display counter.

 

It’s in a pitiful state, only a paltry few cakes sit on curling parchment. The morning rush took care of the majority, and even what’s left caters toward the lean side: two thin eclairs, half a tray of macarons, and a very dehydrated slice of crepe cake. 

 

“Hm…” leaning in closer, Adam presses his nose to the glass and, just barely, just _there_ , his reflection looks back, a shocking sight of his dirty cheeks and wild hair, the cascade of cloak around him. 

 

“I…” he stares a good, long moment, so long that Dog comes whimpering up beside his legs, butting his head against Adam’s wellies.

 

“Huh,” the boy continues, and watches the reflection of Death warp into an even spindlier spire along the case’s curved surface.

 

Then, very matter of factly, he says, “I look awful,” and goes back to deliberating the available pastries, instead. 

 

“Think I better get some sleep after this,” he says idly, and then thinks better on it and amends, “I mean, after we see mum. Oh, hey! She likes macarons, can we bring her some?”

 

The reflection of Death shrugs again, this time with palms offered up.

 

_AGAIN, IT IS YOUR DECISION._

 

“Cool,” Adam straightens and waves the spectre over with one hand, points at the glass with another. “M’gonna get those, an’ that eclair looks alright, so you want the cake, or-?”

 

_CERTAINLY_ , says Death, giving no intonation of preference. 

 

“Right, well,” Adam shuffles past It and around the till, giving the trailing cloak between them another tug, coaxing out a bit of slack.

 

“Sorry,” he says. “Just gotta get back here a sec. One - hang on -”

 

With perhaps more effort than necessary, Adam - feeling very thrilled for his little act of thievery - slides open the display case, gathering up the mostly-gone-stale goodies inside. There’s a convenient stack of paper bags next to the register, and the crinkle of them ricochets sharply in the cloistered cafe as he stuffs his loot inside two: one for his and mum’s treats, and one for Death.

 

“Alright,” he says, the task complete, and he joins the spectre waiting patiently on the other side of the till. 

 

“D’you wanna wait to eat at home? Because I can wait, but if you want to -”

 

He crinkles his bags, and receives an unseen stare for it.

 

_I CAN WAIT,_ says Death. 

 

Indeed It can, though It never thought It might opine as much with regard to sugary delectables.

 

“Okay, me too, then.”

 

Death keeps staring, and the word “concerned” forms unbidden in Adam’s mind.

 

_PLEASE DO NOT…_ **_NOT_ ** _EAT ON MY ACCOUNT,_ the spectre says, and Adam can’t help smiling.

 

Death has been speaking far less eloquently these past few hours, but they’re playing at a game of “I don’t notice a thing if you don’t, either” although, somehow, Adam feels like he’s winning. There’s no prize for it, just a sense of accomplishment. Mister Crowley was right, Death really doesn’t need to be so composed all the time. 

 

“M’okay,” he says, but his traitorous stomach gives a dissenting growl, and Death stares that much harder.

 

“Seriously!” Adam insists, huffing and rolling his eyes, a method of retort he’s become rather fond of. “M’fine! Just means th’sooner we get home, th’sooner I’ll eat. But I wanna get these to mum ‘fore they turn t’cardboard, okay?”

 

_I WILL BE QUICK ABOUT IT, THEN_ , says Death in something of a chastising tone. _BUT WE SHOULD NOT LEAVE, HERE._

 

**_HERE_ ** _HERE,_ It clarifies, as Adam opens his mouth to protest. _I WORRY THAT SUCH AN ABRUPT DISPLACEMENT OF YOUR PRESENCE MIGHT -_ the spectre indicates, bonily, at the errant patrons nearby - _BE SOMEWHAT UPSETTING TO THEIR REALITIES._

 

“Ah,” Adam nods, definitely not understanding but abso _lutely_ not wanting to give Death that leg up. Well, femur as it were. 

 

“Can you hold this, then?” 

 

He thrusts the bag containing the crepe cake at the spectre.

 

“Don’t have enough room under here.”

 

_OH, WELL, CERTAINLY, I - YES, OF COURSE_.

 

Death takes the bag and tucks it away. Its furtive action of doing so makes Adam wonder what else the spectre might keep on Its person, what secrets and trinkets and scraps of interdimensional lint makes a home in Death’s pockets.

 

There’s probably a little more friendship that must yet be made before he can approach that kind of familiarity, so doesn’t ask after the spectre’s keepsakes.

 

_SHALL WE?_

 

“Mhm, yeah.”

 

Adam bundles up, anxious heart aflutter in his chest at the prospect of returning home, of seeing mum of - of… 

 

Well, he tries not to think too much, staying his expectations from where they mustn’t stray. So he just nods, and shuffles for the door, Dog beside him. The animals hasn’t so much as begged for a scrap, keeping absolutely quiet, and Adam makes a mental note to nick a bite of the crepe cake for him when they’re home. 

 

On his cue - his foot a bare millimeter over the threshold - the rain outside picks up, rushing into nothing against his cloak and splashing rivulets where it touches his skin, or the ground, or Dog, or Death. Both spectre and animal could easily stand aside of his torrential radius, but they don’t, loyal even to a fault of soaking through.

 

Behind their party, the cafe goes dormant, pastels fizzling out, windows darkening. 

 

“Alright,” Adam says, and holds out his hand through his storm, toward Death. “Let’s go.”

 

_imagine the inversion, we’ve been here so many times now_

 

There’s an unceremonious force, one that sends him to a sprawl, then suddenly Adam is returned to his home and its emptiness, stumbling into the living room and tripping, falling into the nest of blankets and pillows still littering the floor.

 

_ARE YOU ALRIGHT?_  

 

“M’fine,” Adam blinks hard, trying to dispel the worst pop-snaps of white from his vision. “Bit dizzy, hang on -” 

 

And a bit tangled up, too, in the spectre’s cloak and the worried nuzzles Dog assails him with as he struggles to orient himself. Otherwise, it’s just as it was last time when Death spliced them through space time. Only he’s _here_ , not the forest or bookshop or cafe nor even the comfort of his own imagination amidst his most cherished books. He’s home. And… empty as it is? As he _knows_ it to be? It’s the safest he’s felt all day. 

 

Sure, Death is stood looming over him, almost filling up the room entire with Its massive, black bulk, but there’s reassurance in Its stoop, in the way It hovers over him in a soft arch, like the curve of a shepherd’s crook.

 

_ARE YOU SURE?_ It insists on worrying, so Adam puts on a burst of effort and extricates himself from his fall.

 

“Yah, is’soft, see?” He gestures to the strewn duvets taking on a bit of color and visible texture and feels distinctly the un-presence of his friends.

 

Guarding his emotions from the worst of themselves, he swallows thickly and turns the interrogation back on Death. 

 

“ _You_ okay?”

 

_PERFECTLY AMENABLE,_ answers the spectre. _I BELIEVE, HOWEVER, MY CAKE MAY HAVE SUFFERED SOMEWHAT._

 

“Oh shoot!”

 

With a shock, Adam finds his own bag is no longer tucked to his person, but a frantic moment of sifting through the cloak and cushions at his feet reveals it buried there, undamaged albeit slightly squished. 

 

“ _Phew_ , okay good.”

 

He gives Death a lopsided smile and a thumbs up, the latter of which the spectre returns awkwardly. It’s a proper sight, and Adam snorts.

 

“Oh an’... here,” he shakes loose of the rest of the cloak draped over his shoulders, gathers it up, and tosses it at Death.

 

“Hope it’s not muddy’re anything.”

 

In fact, it is pristine. Death’s robe would never stoop so low as to permit soil to, well… soil it. Regardless, it’s grateful to be rid of Adam’s flesh and boneless aura, promptly ensconcing itself like a prosthetic skin back around Death’s frame. The sight of it makes Adam shiver, and a squirm of nausea worms its way into his gut, but he fights it back for the promise of eclairs and macarons.

 

“Well…” he rocks on his heels, wanting desperately to bolt for the kitchen now that everything is within reach, the house warming up to his presence.

 

The prospect of bringing back his mum - if only for a sliver of a second - rattles his nerves into a jarring mix of excitement and trepidation.

 

“M’gonna -“ he swivels in a half circle, jerks his head over his shoulder. 

 

_OH… OH! YES, OF COURSE. ER -_

 

He can tell Death wants this as little as Adam wants it _terribly_ , but It’s not really the best at saying no and wouldn’t dare to get in Adam’s way. Not presently, anyway.

 

_JUST… BE CAREFUL,_ It says. _BUT, YES, I WILL STAY HERE._

 

“Thanks.”

 

The boy beams: sunshine on his weathered face, 

 

“An’ make yourself at home,” he adds, a sentiment he’s always heard Dad tell company, but he never felt the need to employ it until now. 

 

Of course, Death exists well beyond the relevant hospitalities of the average guest, but Adam still has yet to see the spectre sit. Well, that’s not altogether true. It _was_ sitting, when Adam found It slouched on his throne at the quarry. But that was more of a display, a planned and executed show of some upper hand. Or perhaps it was deference. Either way, it wasn’t for comfort, and it would definitely lift a few ounces of dread off Adam’s shoulders to see Death just… _relax_ for a change.

 

“Sorry everything’s on th’floor,” he says, but Death doesn’t even appear to notice the mess, not even as it withers to life. 

 

_IT IS NO BOTHER, ADAM. YOU GO. I WILL WAIT FOR YOUR RETURN._

 

Cryptic again, and Adam rolls his eyes, though a fondness accompanies the sarcasm. 

 

“M’okay. Dog?”

 

He motions for the animal who is flopped on his back and rolling this way and that, delighted with the familiarity of the blankets. On cue, he scrambles up and weaves around Adam’s legs.

 

The boy takes a deep breath.

 

Exhales.

 

“Right. Let’s go see mum.”

 

As they exit for the kitchen, they are watched, observed by the curiosity of an indecipherable spectre, but it is not they who register the strangeness. It is the spectre, Itself, that struggles for sense.

 

Because, for the first time, Death is hoping. Hoping on behalf a human.

 

-

 

And she’s still there, still… not doing, same as the rain, same as the woman Adam did not touch and who, for all her features were obscured, _could_ have been mum. And he could have left it at that. But she wasn’t, and he remembers this as he sees _her_ , wavering by the sink, swaying. Sepulchral. Acknowledging nothing, least of all him and the life he brings. And he _knows_ she doesn’t: doesn’t see her son, hear him. 

 

Feel him, as, blinded by tears, he rushes over and hugs her. She does not hug back, does not even make a sound, just exhales this distant rush of air as Adam squeezes her too tight round the middle. He used to begrudge her school-day-goodbyes, wrestling from her affections and claiming he was going to be late. Had he known, then, that those might have very well been the last conscious scraps of love he would receive. Well… hindsight and all that.

 

So he hugs her, here and now, without the pretend threat of tardiness, or the put on exasperations of a teenager. Genuinely, _fiercely_ , Adam Young holds his mother, and cries softly into her jumper, and pours every last spark of his energy into willing her better, begging her to come back, to be okay, to _be_ , if only for a second. 

 

“Brought you some macarons,” he sniffles, unburying his face from her breast. “They’re good. Kinda smushed, but they’re - they’re purple.”

 

He stares up at her unmade face, gaze flittering, searching out any indication of her own eyes, mouth, nose, _anything_ \- anything that might be returning to corporeal sense. 

 

Nothing. 

 

Nothing but implacable static, and a vague, sterile smell where lemon thyme used to waft about her person. She always keeps some potted on the windowsill, is always rubbing a leaf or two between her fingers, pressing it to her nose. It’s there now, unshriveling in his presence.

 

It’s one of Adam’s earliest memories, in fact. Not the plant, specifically, but her, mum, sharp and astringent with the scent, hoisting him on her hip, and taking him out to the back garden as a ferocious storm churned overhead. She pointed up, at the thunderheads, saying something he can’t recall. That’s what he thinks of when he smells the citrusy tang, and it’s what he thinks of now as he doesn’t - even as the plant fills out, turgid with remembered life not a few feet away. He could easily pluck a leaf from it, crush it up and savor its sweet sharp scent. He can’t. The utter _wrongness_ … Divorced of mum, it’s just another reminder of everything he’s been robbed of. 

 

He thinks of how strange their roles are, him the one protecting her, trying to explain the world, the boiling storm. 

 

He keeps holding her, sniffling and shuddering, clinging at a belief she will wake from this when it’s all over and everyone is saved. They’ll both pluck a leaf, then, of the windowsill’s lemon thyme, and nibble on it, too, for the balm of it. 

 

At length, he pulls away, not completely, but just enough that he might bring the bag of pastries between them, a last ditch effort to tempt her. So often she complains about putting on weight, and Dad just kisses her cheek and surprises her with chocolates the next day, most of which Adam ends up eating, but she snitches a cheeky treat or two when she thinks neither of them is looking. 

 

Resolutely, Adam does not think of Dad. If he were here, home, faceless, and silent like mum, it would hurt far worse, but… out of sight and mind, isn’t it? There’s only so much grief he can endure.

 

He keeps at the pastries, wincing with the deafening crinkles the bag emits, somehow louder here in the kitchen than the cafe, and retrieves one of the macarons. 

 

“See?” He holds it up to mum’s unmade face, where her mouth might have been. “Told ya. S’purple. An’ -”

 

He brings it to his grimacing teeth, his stomach sinking with a thick sickness, but he manages a bite, small and crumbly and chalky. There’s no taste. Not even the marshmallowy plush of the meringue melting on his tongue. Just dust and grit, like the sugar hadn’t dissolved properly, and _utterly_ tasteless. 

 

With no small, gagging effort, Adam chews it down, not wanting to upset mum any further, but he knows. Absently, along another plane of thought, he supposes he should probably go tell Death not to eat that cake. Probably, it’s gone to a texture of cardboard and slime, but he can’t bring himself to leave mum. He’s so _close_ and was so _sure_ this would work. Surely there were supposed to be rules in place, even in this nonsensical mire the world has descended into. Surely there must be a grand revelation to sort it all, a loophole, a sleight of hand against the universe. But it was never playing fair to begin with, nor has Adam ever known the stakes. Blind and flinching, he’s scattering cards across a chessboard, and somewhere the universe twirls a cricket bat for good measure. 

 

There’s no sense. There’s no winning. There’s no bringing-mum-back-with-power-of-love-and-pastries. There is only a great and vicious muddle of _wrong_ and _cruel_ and _sneer_ and _lost_. And loss. Loss of what dwindling hope Adam had, of hunger and conviction. Sputtering down to a meager taper, the fire in him fizzles, and he slumps against his mother, who does not hold him back, who does not smell of lemon thyme, and who he has no idea how to save. 

 

And, in his misery, his sad-swollen eyes are closed, so he does not see the figure that joins him, there in the kitchen, savoring his emptiness like succor, sniffing it out from somewhere else, pulling itself through because of it. 

 

Himself.

 

And if Adam were to look, he would recognize the figure. For a shard of a second, he _would_ . And then he would not, because it is so grossly disfigured in its hunt as to have made itself - _himself_ \- unto its own mimicry. Emaciated, starving, _stalking_ out Adam’s sorrow, tasting the _lack_ in his soul. 

 

It - he - was merely wandering by, in the Other place. Didn’t know where it - _he_ \- was, really. It’s not the same over There. A great _upheaval_ , remember? But then… the chalk dust pastry, and lemon-wilt, the _yearning_. 

 

_He_ savors those, utterly starved for anything. 

 

And then Adam opens his eyes and, like before, does not see. Did not see the battle, then, and does not see the portend, now. Its atrophied, handsome face _undoes_ back into its proper Place before it can be beheld.

 

But it is felt. Distinctly, in the pit of Adam’s empty, ravenous stomach, it _is_. And he doesn’t recognize the depth of his hunger, cannot plumb that, because he’d never return up from it, so thinks it, still, to be his sadness, and hugs mum tighter. 

 

Finally, when a semblance of reality slips in, Adam feels the strain in his arms, in his toes he’s been standing on for no other reason than to better leverage himself against mum, get as close as he can without toppling them both over. With fragile unwanting, he lets go of her, pastry bag still in hand, the bottom of it seeping wet from the melting frosting of the eclair. He chucks it into the sink, to rot there, tastelessly. 

 

He doesn’t know what to do, then. Death waits in the living room, Dog lays forlornly at his feet - even he did not see the split-second visitor - and mum does not _anything_. 

 

Back to the waiting, it seems. On an angel and demon to do all the saving and bravery for him. But what do they know of mum? Of his friends? Why did he just… let them go? Why didn’t he protest? Why didn’t he _insist_? 

 

_He_ should be There. Finding everyone, _saving_ them. He’s done it before. He’s saved the whole world! Why did he let Death so easily convince him? Trap him here while two strangers are off cavorting in another dimension? With no idea what mum’s favorite smell is, or Pepper’s too many words and Wensleydale’s suffering sighs and Brian’s sherbet? 

 

Why this? Why _all_ of it? Why to him, and him alone? He doesn’t want this, doesn’t want to be Life when the world refuses it, remains resolutely _not_ . What’s the point? Where is the _end_.

 

He sinks. Into himself, to the floor, beside mum’s slippered feet and Dog’s whimpers. 

 

He doesn’t notice Death’s arrival. 

 

First, he is alone - mum’s presence hardly counts - and then he is not, the spectre gathering him up in Its arms, carrying him away, cradling him. The last vestige of fury inside Adam wants to protest, to kick and flail, to injure and fracture as he has been wounded but… oh but he’s just _so_ tired. The crying’s done him in, properly this time, and the whole day - has it been a day? Longer? Shorter? How much time has turned to dust in the interim of the world? - sinks upon his shoulders as they heave and judder with more sobs. Quiet, pathetic little whimpers he muffles into Death’s cloak, streaking its cloud-down candy floss softness with his tears. They soak steadily into the fabric, but only Death notices flinches. Because It lets them. 

 

_THIS IS TOO MUCH FOR YOU, PRINCE_ , It says when they return to the living room. Dog trots sullenly after, knowing well enough not to growl despite the horrific image of Death holding his master.

 

Slowly, the spectre supplicates, and lays Adam in a nest of spiraled up blankets and pillows. Though It promised him the space, Death had listened intently to Adam’s scene, and set about attempting this caricature of comfort the second It detected the crack in Adam’s voice. It serves the boy well, and he curls tight and foetal, deeper into them.  

 

_PLEASE REST NOW._

 

“ _But mum…_ ” Adam murmurs, meek with exhaustion and defeat. 

 

How is it he was glimmer-eyed at the prospect of pastries not moments prior? Such complications threaten to send Death reeling, the whiplash burden of emotions and adrenaline… It’s suffered several of the former today, enough for Its infinite lifetime. It suspects there are countless more to endure, but… there’s a chance for respite. A pretense to calm the voracity of Life, let him hibernate in his woes, find a dreamless peace. 

 

There’s another reason, but Death does not want to think about that.* 

 

_PLEASE_ , It says, and does not rise from Its knees though they scream at the joints. 

 

(Death has not knelt in a very, very long time.)

 

_I PROMISE_ , It continues, _YOU WILL WAKE TO BETTER PROSPECTS._

 

Technically, It is not lying. 

 

At Adam’s lack of response, the spectre takes it for concession, and places upon the boy’s shudder-heave shoulders Its own scalpeled palms, pulling up from Its depths and pushing down into him: the cloying platitudes, the idiomatic, the been here we’ve _been here_

 

So he sleeps, Adam Young. Like the dead, as it were. 

 

But for the living? Only Death now knows this, the spectre keeping watch over the boy, cenotaph still beside him. If all else has receded, Death reasons, hibernated off into the Place of Forms, then Life gone dormant surely should bear no consequence. Of course, it’s all just a hunch, and Death is far better at that, physically, than any such lofty hypothesis. Again… untenable.

 

So. Slowly, slowly, as Adam turns and tosses in the tides of distant, sleeping fever, Death rises, unbends Its bones, but still keeps beside the boy. Dog watches the spectre with no shortage of suspicious sighs, curled up by Adam’s head, and Death respects their necessary distance. It doesn’t need to offer any further solace, anyway. Hasn’t needed to at all, really; there was no benefit to their visiting the patisserie, the house, the mother. It was only to assuage Adam, to sate his Life and the undying resilience within him. Death would have been content to never budge again from the bookshop until the immortals returned, for so easy does It finds the lurking, the patience. It is an entity of biding. Tiding over till the loss ebbs in, that great, gaping sleep.

 

This is not how Adam rests, but it is how Death waits. It’s the only way It knows how, though never before did It have such a cause other than the expectation of an inevitable soul. Indeed, that’s what Death is trying to preserve. It cannot assume how long this might take, how many tailspins of the solar system might careen around them until the immortals find their way back, find the others. 

 

It is. A sleep of dying. Not to completion. Just… on the way there. A preserved expiring, so that Adam will not. 

 

And Death will watch over him - this golden lamb - and tick away whatever eternity may result.

 

And It will resolutely _not_ pace in rustling, agitated ellipticals, or worry Its bony fingers against each other, as if trying to wring out the marrow long ago rotted away. It will not find the seconds of slumber to be small aeonic agonies of their own. Will not feel Its own robe as It never before considered (cloudlike) and whether It might just have a lay down, too, next to Adam. It will -

 

_My friend_. 

 

Death jolts from Its manic monologue, whips round, Its vaporous cloak spanning out in a dark arc that flutter-falls over Adam. Paying little heed to this, Death casts about frantically. It recognizes the voice. It knows who has spoken. But It cannot see them. But It _knows_ …

 

And then. He is there. Feral and unkempt, yet still terribly handsome despite the emaciation that mars his perfect, consumptive cheekbones. 

 

_SABLE?_  

 

The moniker sounds as foreign as Famine looks, but they have long since acclimated to one another’s put on identities, and Death reserves the Horseman’s proper title for more befittingly apocalyptic instances, anyway. Semantics might argue this is one such instance. Death, however, is unable to broach anything more complicated than an unseen drop of Its jaw.

 

He’s there, Raven Sable, Famine, Horseman of The-Ones-Always-Wanting, swaying through occasions of corporeality, but mostly only just inhabiting a silhouette of indistinction. He is not _here_ , then. He is… come-over-incorrectly, forced himself through from the Place. 

 

And, apparently having used up the single instance of his vocal chords, he does not respond to Death’s outburst. The spectre is even less inclined to wait on an answer, and persists without reasoning It won’t receive an explanation either way. 

 

_HAVE THEY FOUND YOU? ARE YOU RETURNING? WHAT OF THE OTHERS?_

 

Famine staggers. He’s able to hear, it seems, but comprehension eludes his elusivity in terrible tandem. He watches, though; keen, sunken eyes as crisp and clever as they ever were, darting flitter-flick this way, that way, narrowing down from the room, then the oddity of DeathAdamDog, and then DeathAdam, and then, finally, Adam alone. Famine cocks what he can of his head, a sallow consternation knitting his dark brows. 

 

The boy is mostly obscured, shrouded again in Death’s cloak - another blanket for his fortitude -  but his golden curls peak out, his twitching eyelids, sighs and groans that cannot be assuaged without waking him entirely, and that is just - just not…

 

It is not a predaceous _watch_ Famine inflicts. More an observance, a need to clarify the scene of his fellow Rider consorting, as it were, with Its own antithesis. It strikes Death as odd. Or… perhaps Famine has not worked it out, has not encountered his own. Did they not conjoin in the Place? If Adam’s friends are the supplement, then surely they should be with their respective entity… 

 

It wants to ask. Even if an answer is impossible, Death must tell his compatriot, let him know who he must seek out, how he must wait. But the chance expires the second it dawns, and, as innocuously as he arrived, Famine abruptly departs, dissolving to a faint miasma of ozone and bile. 

 

Death snaps shut Its jaw, opens it again to call out, to stammer, to be terribly, _impossibly_ confused, but is not afforded the chance. Where Famine dissipates, another swirl of esoteric smog billows into the room, quickly surrounding spectre and boy, alike. Dog, quick on his feet, makes a rabid snap, but recoils, whimpering, at the taste of the vapor. 

 

_WHAT_ **_ARE_ ** _YOU?_ Death demands, watching shapes and bodies bulge into one another, round and round, through and between, a great morass of indecipherable violence. 

 

It is so silent. _Perversely_. Just as it was before, and just as unseen by any but Death. It feels hideously obligated to the scene, like It should join the fray and pluck up souls, but Its comrade in arms is not there amidst the mist, and there are no souls to discern, no ultimate demise. At least… not one Death is familiar with. 

 

But there is _sinister_ and _wrong_ and _closing in, coming for them_ , and Death sees, in a panic, that the room around them has lost what lustre Adam brought to it, the _life_ of it peeled away like sickly wallpaper, exposing once more the bare scaffolding of reality without the boy’s influence. 

 

_No_.

 

In a sinewy, oil-spill blink, Death gathers Adam up. Sparing a vicious baring of bone-blunt teeth, It snarls at the spectral vapors, grounds Itself with the burn of Adam’s golden soul in Its arms, and warps reality to their will, whisking them away from those misaligned enmities, back - back to the bookshop. 

 

They arrive in a gasp, Death punched clean of air, and It collapses to Its brittle kneecaps at the threshold of War’s internment. Adam nearly tumbles from Its arms, but the spectre grapples him tighter, though It might pull him through Its very chest cavity and fill up the horror aching there with the boy’s interminable glow. For a harrowing moment, Death wonders if the soiled world was a result of Adam’s sleeping, but nothing has changed of his aura, the seep of him. It was that… that battle. That violence without reason or end, beyond the parameters of portends and humanity. It is its own incarnate upheaval, and Death does not know it.

 

And It cannot reason, cannot suss, cannot go back there, can only hope _it_ cannot slink into the shop. 

 

Which is about the same time Death notices a few other things.

 

One: there are no blankets. It was sure It would have grabbed some in the panic of wresting Adam away, but instead there is only Its own cloak, again wrapped around the boy, save much less tempestuously than before. The fabric does not recoil from Adam’s skin, not does groan along its fibers.

 

And, two: It forgot Dog. Again.

 

_Oh dear…_  

 

Immediately, It carries Adam over to the sofa, lays him down there, and turns to make some distance between them before blinking back to retrieve the animal but… Its cloak…  

 

See, it should slide off the boy, like before, like the rainwater does off a duck’s back - ignoring the fact the cloak greedily soaked it all up. But now, it stays, as if stuck, as if a second skin, adhered to Adam, refusing to part from him. 

 

Death, dazed, wanders back over, gives a few, useless tugs to the hem of Its robe, but it refuses to budge and, to the delicious irony of Death’s horror, the fabric has begun to change. Where black should span in finite resolution, now, where it drape-sticks to Adam, instead winking nebulas of color push up and through the pupil-pitch mire, swirling and fizzing between the stitches. 

 

Death staggers. Stares.

 

Again, fruitlessly, It pulls, and pulls harder, but the only effect this achieves is Adam nearly falling off the sofa. Death catches him just in time, rights him, and goes back to staring, utterly flummoxed. 

 

There is one certainty, at least, which is Death cannot go back for Dog. It refuses to bring Adam again into the line of fire of that vicious vision, and can’t very well shed Its own portion of the cloak. Admittedly, the spectre is less put out by this than It should rightfully be - It does _not_ like hellhounds, no matter how domesticated - and, indeed, It somewhat fixates on the ease of that solution as It fails to find one for Its robe taken this sudden fancy to Adam. Death doesn’t suppose it’s literally fused itself to the boy - it’s not corporeal enough for that - but its imbued sentience… that’s a bit worrisome. 

 

And so, ever more an image of strangeness, and far too amenable to it, as well, Death sits, beside Adam there on the sofa. Sits and thinks. Not about the fact It is _sitting_ , not about Dog, not about the mist or Famine or a war without War, not even, really, about Its robe. It just… thinks… about nothing in particular, which It has never considered before. Never done. Never had the chance, the reason to. And there’s woefully little of that, anyway. 

 

And, in Its pocket smolders a water damaged page, unremembered by the spectre that put in there, the bones that buried it in black-of-ink folds, but well aware of itself, of the flesh filled fingers that tore it out to be cherished and wondered over. But it doesn’t need to be. Remembered. Not by the spectre. The boy does enough of that for them all. Even in sleep. Even without dreams.

 

And so, as the colors solder and creep, Death unspools its cloak, laying more and more at Its feet, atop Adam, in the empty spaces Dog might have filled up, and, now, there are stakes. Now, there is a wait for It, a deadline. And It tries, Death, to unpick the colors as Adam and the world sleep on and do not dream, as the page hidden away seeps and stains, forgotten. Perhaps Death will recall it when there is no more of Its cloak to dispel. Perhaps it will make the connections, of Adam and his books and his strange page and his _life_. Perhaps. Perhaps…

 

remember

 

untenable


End file.
